Race the Train

I do love a good race. There is just something so addictive about race days.

Often though, during races, despite the fact I'm surrounded by thousands of other runners, I'm not actually racing anyone, the battle is purely between me, myself and time.

Training runs are a bit different and to make life more interesting I’m constantly inventing little races. It could be a against a passing cyclist or a rower on the river, I just have to get to a tree in the distance before them. A recent recovery run turned into a short race against a mobility scooter when I just had to beat it to the next lamppost. Anything or anyone becomes fair game for a race, it's just that the others involved don't know they are actually racing.

What makes the race I'm about to start a little bit more exciting is that I have an official opponent. In something resembling a cut price Top Gear challenge I'm going to see if I can run faster than a steam train.

Runners taking on the train

Hundreds of us now stand on the bridge at the start overlooking the railway.The smoke drifting across the road and the occasional whistle lets us know the train is right below us, limbering up, ready to take on the pack of runners.

All the talk at the start is about if we can beat it. Some are confident, others say they have no chance. I'm one of the group in the middle who think it may just be possible.

And so off we run with the usual crazy abandon at the start of the race. Through the drifting smoke and the crowds that line the course in the town centre. As usual I've been sucked into going off way too fast but I just can't help myself. Ringing in my ears is the sound of the trains whistle and the time I need to beat it, 1 hour and 47 minutes.

The first mile entices us into running too fast. It's along a gloriously smooth tarmac road offering us no clues as to the treacherous paths we will encounter. I should probably save some energy, but this is perfect to make up a bit of time on the lumbering steam engine.

As usual I started off way too quickly. Thanks to Presteigne Pacers for the picture

I'm wary of going to quick though, after hearing stories of what's to come. Fourteen miles of the finest Welsh countryside are in front of me and everyone has been only too keen to tell me how tough this race is going to be.

I arrived at the campsite only to be told by the owner about the biblical amount of rain the day before and how a boat rather than a train may have been drafted in for the race. Then whilst pitching the tent my neighbour for the night told me about last year's carnage when the race which took place in the tail end of a hurricane. His wife had just run the 10k. I asked her how the course was, her reply was "boggy" with an expression that said "you don't know the half of it mate!"

The final summary came from another 10k runner just as I was walking to the start. He appeared to be suffering from some kind of shell shock, unable to string sentences together. He kept on glancing nervously at my pasty, white, but for now, perfectly clean legs. It's just so muddy he kept saying over and over whilst shaking his head. I decided to get to the start before he made me any more nervous.

Clean for now. Wondering what I had let myself in for at the start.

We've now left the safety of the road and head over a bridge into the first of many fields. It's just a tad wet. After rather daintily skipping over the first few puddles, I quickly realise I'm fighting a loosing battle and start careering straight through them.

Before long I pass the first of many runners frantically searching for their shoe in one of the many boggy sections, this must have been what they were all talking about, we are knee deep In the stuff now. I was soon to realise though this was nothing, it was the little aperitif of mud before the main course later on.

All the while we are chased by the train, it's constant chug and occasional whistle, driving us to run (or splash) faster. Suddenly it's alongside, I had been concentrating so hard on staying upright that I hadn't realised it was right behind me.

Passengers lean out of the windows shouting encouragement, I'm now multi tasking, trying to keep pace with the train, waving at it whilst also trying not to fall victim of the mud. Then it dawns on me, if it's alongside I'm not winning.

MUST RUN FASTER.

Over the first little hill the valley opens up ahead of us, the train line neatly dissecting the two sets of lush green hills that frame our view. It's a stunning scene, one so crystal clear, as if the whole world has suddenly gone HD after years of being broadcast to you in standard definition.Thirty seconds later it starts pissing down with rain, and the view disappears into a hazy cloud.

It's ironic that many trail runs take you through the most stunning scenery, yet you get little chance to see it as you are concentrating so hard on the path trying not to sprain an ankle. After a few seconds of gawping at the view I'm back staring at stones and mud again.

So far it's been nice and flat, then we hit the first proper hill, I try to run up it, wondering why everyone else is walking. About a third of the way up, I’ve been transformed into an aching, wheezing wreck and I realise that everyone else knows exactly what they were doing. I start to walk and attempt to get my breath back.

One crazy decent and a rampaging herd of sheep later we hit the halfway mark. At this point the words of the course description start to haunt me.

This has been the easy part of the course and you must be well ahead of an estimated half way time as the second half is much tougher....... it then delivers the killer blow.....Good male runners can normally BEAT THE TRAIN

I've been told I need to hit halfway in forty five minutes and I'm just behind. With the taunting course description at the forefront of my mind I charge up the next hill and start the more extreme section of the race.

The course map which made the course look deceptively easy!

The once wide paths have narrowed and each misjudged footstep threatens to send you very quickly to the bottom of the hill.

We are forming a train of our own. With the path being so narrow there is nowhere to overtake. I start to get frustrated, feeling that I could run so much faster. As soon as we are back on a wider track though this is proved to definitely not be the case. I try to push on and overtake only to be met with legs that stubbornly refuse to go any faster. I guess this pace will do just fine then.

Back into the woods we go, and I discover where most of yesterday's rain has ended up. One wrong move and you are up to your thighs in mud. A slippery downhill section follows with a jolly marshall screaming at the top of his voice "Be Careful....I DO NOT WANT ANOTHER BROKEN LEG!"

All thoughts turn from beating the train to just surviving.

If I do die though at least it's in a stunning part of the world. As we slide, stumble and squelch our way under the trees we come across a waterfall in full flow. I make a mental note to come back here when I don't have a pesky train to race

Back out in the open we are greeted by the inevitable head wind. Gradually, ever so gradually we are getting closer to town. We just have to make it through a few more fields that I swear have been designed to break runners ankles

Before long the tracks become familiar and I realise we are going back along the route we ran earlier. Marker miles tick off. The train station getting near.

Finally we hit the farm track and then we are back on the main road into town and something I dreamed about in the woods. TARMAC.

Sprinting for the station, I have no idea whats going on with the guy behind me!

It's so strange to be running on the road again, after everything we have just been through this almost feels too clean and ordinary. It's just too civilised and clinical. It doesn't really fit in with the rest of the race

Still though there's a train to beat, back through town, the massive crowds and then finally the finish line. I've done it.....I survived.

Ok, so I have to be happy with survival as I didn't quite beat the train. The hulking great mass of steel and steam came in just under two minutes before me. I guess I can't be too unhappy though, trains were invented to be slightly quicker than the average human being.

                        

Muddy Legs at the end but a rather cool finishers medal

This though, has been a proper race, one in which the whole town seems to take delight in. As I delve into the goodie back devouring anything that's edible and probably a couple of things that aren't I'm already plotting my revenge. I guess the one good thing about missing the train is that I’m going to have to come back next year and try again. I can’t wait.

Midsummer Murder Mile

It's only a mile, one sodding mile. I run loads of them. So why, at this small race in a Welsh valley, am I standing on the start line more nervous than I would be at most other events?

The mile is a hellish race, one which many non runners don't really understand. "But you run further than that all the time.” They say slightly perplexed. “A mile is easy!". Except that it’s really not.

Happy faces before the start, at this point I think we were in denial about what we were going to do!

A mile is a hideous distance to run. You start off at sprint, by one hundred meters you are ready to stop, keel over and quit running forever. By half distance you would give anything to feel how you did at one hundred meters. Your whole body is filled with searing pain, there are no other feelings, no emotions except a panic about how long you can keep going and how far away the finish line is. The last half is just plain torture, it’s a fight between you, your body and the messages it’s sending your brain, telling you to stop this madness.

At the finish you are reduced to a quivering wreck, unable to remember your name, unable to say it if you could remember. If you can stand you are reduced to a hobble, that's if you are lucky. Most people after a mile are unable to peel themselves off the road. The worst thing though is your lungs. In the space of a few minutes you have been transformed from a relatively fit runner to someone who sounds like they have been smoking forty a day from their early teens. In short, a mile completely breaks you.

And that was a normal mile on a pancake flat piece of road. This mile is slightly different, hence the rather menacing name of the Murder Mile. The tarmac lane in front of me disappears from view as it goes up, then up again and up some more before going up a bit further. Yep, this mile is up the side of a rather large hill.

In case we had forgotten just how steep that hill was, the organisers provide us runners with a couple of reminders. First of we have to drive up the course to get to the car park, which is hard enough in itself. After a lot of revs in first gear and probably burning though most of my clutch we make the summit, to then be told we have to walk back down to the start. We leave the smell of clutch wafting on the summer breeze and head all the way back down to base camp. 

It's so steep even this is hard work and we are left standing at the start with Jelly legs even before the race has even begun. These gentle reminders of how difficult the course is bring back the nauseous feeling from the finish last year. I remember now, it's all coming back to me, this race is bloody horrible, it's self induced torture! I'm starting to have second thoughts but then I guess there is only one way back to my car which is perched on top of the hill.

We were less happy after the walk to the start and realising just how steep the hill was!

I've done this event twice before. I can confidently say that last year it was the worst I felt after finishing a race. It took me a while to realise I wasn't going to collapse and then lot longer before I was confident I could keep the contents of my stomach down!

So why do it? Why put myself through this pain? As I'm contemplating this along with why I run, the meaning of life and other such questions, the race director, in the brightest of bright hoodies steps into the lead car and in one of the most understated starts I can remember simply shouts go! A count down would have been good with maybe a hooter or klaxon but then that doesn't really fit with the slightly random nature of this race. Other races have starts like that and this, most definitely is not like other races.

So off we run through the now familiar burning smell of clutch as we start the ascent back up to the finish and salvation. No backing out now then. It's only a mile.

The first part of the run is deceptive, the adrenaline of the start takes over and you feel good, the first third doesn't seem so steep. Past the locals sitting on chairs with their bottles of wine everything still feels ok. It's tempting to stop and enjoy a tipple of Chateauneuf du Taff but this section of the course feels fairly flat and besides, I'm already a third of the way in, this really ain't so bad.

And then it hits you, at about half way the road really ramps up, we are now running up something that Eddie the Eagle could have used it as a training jump.

The ironic thing for such a steep run is that it's actually the flatter bits that get you. Just before the ski jump, the road flattened out a bit, tricking you into running quicker, sapping the precious energy you need further up the hill. Just as you start the main traverse you find your legs are no longer able to do what you want.

The first year I was determined to run the whole thing. This turned out to be a stupid idea. I found this out the hard way when, with my lungs pretty much exploding, other competitors started walking past me. At this, the steepest point of the climb, walking is definitely quicker!  

And so the run walk begins. Walk for most of it then a short run past any crowds on the side, just to try and look a little more respectable for any pictures.

Putting on a sprint of sorts past the camera!

The worst thing to do is to look at the Garmin, it seems to be stuck in a time warp, numbers click over so slowly. I have to be going quicker than this, it has to be broken.

And still the road goes up, in the distance though there is a sign, on which the organisers have rather amusingly scrawled 200m to go now sprint! Ha, I wish!

Finally you get to the turn that signals the finish. Mercifully the farm track that takes you there is flat, oh so flat. I could stop and kiss this rather muddy concrete but that will probably affect my finish position so maybe later.

With fifty meters to go I try to do what the sign said and fire up my best Usain Bolt impression, except there's a problem. My legs no longer seem attached to my body. No matter what I do, what messages my brain tries to send them, they don't want to go forward. Far from Bolt my sprint looks more like Brains from Thunderbirds.

Finally though I cross the line. The usual jubilation of finishing a race has got to wait for a few minutes while I first piece myself back together again.

Happy its all over

An hour later, now sat in the pub with a drink and some grub I'm starting to feel a bit more human again.The mind is a rather amazing/slightly stupid thing. Already it's blanking out how much pain I was in during the run and trying to convince me that I actually enjoyed it. Endorphins start to dance around my body and I'm already in complete denial. That was bloody good fun, I do love the mile. Same time next year then people?

The view from the top almost made the run worth it!