The March Feat

The day is starting well. We are leaving home just ten minutes later than suggested which is comfortably within the thirty minutes grace I’d weaved into the departure plan; last minute leg swinging in the bathroom being a prerequisite of one member of the party.

We are leaving without anyone claiming they have left a vital piece of kit behind so we hit the road. The SatNav is providing its customarily vague directions. We competed in this race the previous year so we knew the SatNav would let us down near the end of our time on the motorway, last year we missed the turning. This was a hotly debated blame game with Stella, our SatNavigator and obvious prime suspect, keeping shtum at the critical point. We were not about to fall into the same trap on this visit.

The car contains the usual four people: MoJo driving, me – shotgun and the Smiths in the back. We are all on high alert but eventually zoom past the junction yet again. Everyone thought it looked familiar just at the point it was too late to do anything about it.

Last year, we found through bitter experience that twenty miles to the next exit is a very long way. We also noted that the return journey, once there was the opportunity to turn around, made it seem twice as far…

It seems even longer this time. There is silence.

We have arrived with just five minutes to prepare ourselves. There’s not enough time for the leg swinger to swing her legs and then join us to change shoes and organise kit, so she is forgoing and will remain uncomfortable along with the rest of us.

Actually, not all of us are now running; MoJo is nursing a bit of tendinitis and has elected at the last minute to be homecoming cheerleader. The remaining three of us rib her mercilessly as we make our way to the line. I give MoJo a quick kiss and make a hilarious joke about running through injury to come out stronger. Why don’t people get my sense of humour?

It’s a very damp, foggy and chilly start and we all know we are wearing too much kit. An hour in, the temperature will be an altogether different matter. I arrange to meet MoJo at the end of the first lap, the plan being to jettison the couple of layers I know I will be carrying well before we meet.

We are at the line; I say ‘have a good run’ to the Smiths and we are off. I feel good, great, in fact, but I remind myself it’s too early to take advantage. The second lap and the second hour will be where I will make my effort. This year, lap one, for me, is a waiting game for improvement in the weather and the temperature of my leg muscles.

The course consists mainly of narrow trails; it’s a 10-kilometre undulating loop through the wilds of beautiful Derbyshire. For nature’s splendour, there isn’t a day here throughout the year that disappoints. The scenery is always an awe-inspiring version of the spectacular – even today in the fog once we’re high enough to be looking down onto it. There is much to appreciate but it’s also mighty cold, somehow colder than January or February had been. Maybe it’s due to the piercing wind that is now arriving to blow the fog away.

We are ascending a winding, tree lined and very long drag that is, for the moment, home to the concentration of quite enthusiastic supporters who we soon leave behind to stand shivering in the cold. Surely they scurry back to their cars as soon as we are out of sight? I must ask MoJo.

This hill is a killer on the second lap, or it would be if I hadn’t planned to take it easy during lap one and on the second lap’s ascent too; I plan to open the taps after cresting the top for the second time. For now, I will attempt to keep smiling for the benefit of the applauding puffer jackets. They are, of course, applauding both to keep warm and in support of the many runners passing me at a rate of knots. I’m not embarrassed, I have a plan. I know I won’t reel them all in, but some of them will be in the beer queue behind me…

I’m over the top and, it has to be said, blowing a little. I’m now high enough to enjoy the surreal view over the fog. Trees, bits of buildings and the plentiful hills poke awkwardly through the grey blanket for as far as the eye can see. Runners have stopped passing me now and I am comfortable at my 10K pace, a pace I hope to maintain for the full twenty.

I’m now loosing height and am back under the cloud; too slowly to have the half-in, half-out effect seen from inside a plane, although I can’t reliably say how long the transition took, it just happens. At the bottom of the hill there is a sharp left over the bridge and we follow the river back in the direction of the start. The thing with rivers is: they take the easiest route, leaving lumps and bumps for the rest of us to cope with. Flat, it isn’t. It’s a great trail, though; a few green shoots and dainty blue flowers help decorate the grim desolation left by winter and there is enough air between the naked branches of bushes and trees to allow an occasional glimpse the steel-grey river. As bleak as the scenery is, it is good enough to divert my attention from my usual in-run game of criticising my fellow runner’s foot-ware. Through inattention, I haven’t yet noticed anyone wearing shoes like my new graphene infused, waterproof hooves. This is both good and bad. As I splash carelessly through muddy puddles I feel sorry for anyone not wearing them, I feel slightly superior too… Frankly, shoes make little difference at my level, or my sub-division of my level. Carbon springs are wasted on me. As is graphene. In fact, I may as well be running in wellingtons. Happily, I’m not and I’m making acceptable progress.

We are approaching the last altitude gain of the lap. Far from being daunted, I am relishing this hill. If it were any steeper we would need a ladder. The gradient is ferocious but mercifully short and I love it. Last year I found I have the ability to bound up it, almost as if it were not there, and I do the same again. At the top is a fluorescent yellow A4 poster with a helpful arrow promising that there is just 2-K to go. Yes, of the first lap!

The first of the two kilometres is downhill all the way, the second a pan flat run-in designed to get the best out of us next time we are here. I’m taking it all at the comfortable pace I have settled into and keep an eye open for the accommodating MoJo as I’m nearing the start of lap two.

The fog is almost gone now and the temperature is just into double figures, so I’m pleased to see MoJo has two replacement water pouches in one hand and nothing in the other. I pull out my almost empty pouches from my hydration belt and toss them and the clothing in her direction as I approach, hoping to grab the full pouches as I pass. Obviously, this was never going to work and I am left retracing my steps to pick up the second pouch out of stinking mud. I give MoJo a consolatory peck on the forehead, blow her a second and set off up killer hill for the second and last time.

It feels easier this time but I remember the plan and try to reign myself in. At the top, the view has changed, the vista is transformed as the valley is now lush green even though the leaf-less trees are still stoically anticipating the arrival of spring.

Now is the time to up the pace. I kick slightly, am I fooling myself that my pace is faster? Maybe I’ve simply returned to my 10K pace… I bank into the turn over the bridge and pick up the river path – my legs beginning to feel heavy. Is that due to the ‘increased’ pace, or the increasing distance… The undulating trail is unrelenting but I’m pushing as hard as I can.

I’m feeling tired suddenly. Damn, I missed my banana stop at the turn. Those kisses were expensive. I dig into the pocket of my hydration belt and find the expected espresso gels. I was supposed to use one at the turn and one around now. What the hell, I’ll down them both now. I’ve never used two gels in quick succession and have no idea what the effect would be. Would the second wait in anticipation of the first being successful before dutifully chiming in to follow on? Certainly, progress is improving; I can immediately feel strength returning.

The river’s colour is now matching the cloudless sky – a solid but beautiful powder blue; what a difference an hour makes. The scenery and conditions are perfect but just ahead there are a couple of local youths churning up a pasture on quad bikes. I’m passing them in total silence; my feet not making a sound so their racket is out of keeping with the peaceful setting. I’m cursing them under my breath to keep the noise to a minimum; I don’t have breath to spare for remonstrations.

The wind has dropped and my core temp is rising fast. It’s time to attack the remainder of the river path. I reel in a few of the beer queue unfortunates and start the final ascent with as much pleasure as I have ever felt as I bound up the ladder hill. The puffer jacketed supporters are now dressed in jumpers and applaud encouragingly.

I’m going well so I give another big push and immediately feel wobbly. Ooops, a big stumble. I know I’m going all the way down but I turn the fall into a forward roll and continue on my way. Why did the supporters gasp? Was it so impressive? Anyway, I’m still upright and continuing, nothing to see here… I’m fine. My laces are still tied; I wonder what it was… It’s not the first time I’ve miss footed and it won’t be the last; onwards and upwards, there go a couple more luckless beer queue extenders.

I’m at the top; here’s the poster, just two kilometers to go. I’m feeling good, really light, powerful, can it be the two gels? Don’t look at your watch; the time’s not important yet. Got to beat 2:15. I think I’ll do it, I don’t remember feeling this good last year.

This is hard but I’m feeling invincible, normally my knees twinge on descents but I’m feeling absolutely no discomfort anywhere in my body, this is a great feeling. Puffing a bit hard though. Nothing wrong with that, you’re running, after all. I’m nearly at the bottom of the hill… what the… Jesus – quad bikes! What the hell, can’t they see! What’s the point of them leaning on their horns?! Idiots!

Here’s the one-K sign. Those idiots almost knocked me off my feet, look at them weaving around the runners in front. Tsk; they’re not going to ruin my day, come on, plough on.

There’s the finish, not long to go now – keep going, keep pushing! Don’t look at your watch; don’t look at your watch! Dig in… come on…

Fifty metres to go, MoJo and the Smiths must be there somewhere. I’m over the line and feeling fantastic! Where are they? Press stop! Press stop!

No sign of them. Okay, look at the time… 2:08! Hey! Awesome! So why’s no one here to celebrate? Sheesh, this is a bit bad. The finish line seems a bit sparse too, where’s the cheering throng? I know I’m not a front runner but there are usually a few people left hanging around at this sort of time… they seem more interested in what’s going on over there… Ah, they’re mobbing the quad bike riders – good! I’ll have a word with them too… idiots! There’s MoJo! She seems upset, they’d better not have hurt her! Out of my way please, that’s my wife… Hell’s teeth… on the hay-bale rack of the big quad bike… he’s dressed like me – same shoes! What’s that guy doing? Ripping the unconscious guy’s shirt off! A defibrillator! They’re putting it on the guy’s chest. Whoa, I feel weird…

Did you see my time? Hey, look at my watch: 2:08… I beat last year’s time! MoJo is smiling through her unfathomable tears. Ah, yes – she must have seen my time.