A Journey through Wales; or How I Lost my Mind but Won a Race
Eighteen
months of preparation. 13 months and
3,000 miles of training and all I was left with was this final 253 miles to
achieve something that had totally dominated my every waking hour – and quite a
lot of the sleeping one’s too – for far too long. It was time to start carrying
out the plans meticulously prepared across 13 spreadsheets and a 37-page word
document, condensed and printed onto waterproof paper – double sided, 2 pages
per side! Yes, I really am that anal.
My Wife Sarah, my Sister Claire and I had all eaten at the
standing stones pub the night before, headed to race registration at the
Premier Inn, had a brief chat with my remarkable friend Richard “Mad Kiwi”
McChesney, been thrown out of said Premier Inn because we weren’t guests and
“Covid”, and had a fairly large whisky to ensure a good night’s sleep. And, according to my watch, I got a really
solid 7h45 before being woken by the alarm. I don’t think I’ve ever been woken
by the alarm on the morning of a race before.
But then, I’d been quite ill on and off – nothing serious, just a succession
of annoying colds, chest infections and deadly man-flu – for five weeks so my
body was still quite tired.
Holyhead to Criccieth (0-60 Miles)
My drop bag was in the back of Mark’s van, and we were, en-masse,
taking the brief stroll to Holyhead Station for the start. Others were chatting but I found a little
space by myself to clear my head and try to relax. I can get a bit tense and excited. There were several attempts to get a big
group photo – the backlighting was apparently poor, so we needed to be wheeled
around! Mark’s pre-race briefing was less scary than I’d expected and then we
were off. A brief jog/walk slightly up through Holyhead for a couple of miles
before heading out around a little nature reserve and the crossing from
Holyhead (technically and Island in its own right) and onto the main Island of
Anglesey. I was really focussing on not getting caught up in any early race
silliness like “racing”.
My plan was to jog at about 11 min/mile for 15 minutes
before taking a walking break for 5 minutes at around 14 mins/mile. As I so
often find, this puts me in a bit of a no-mans land. You tend to get a group
out front of those mostly running. Then there is a group of others doing as I
am, regular walking breaks, but they don’t walk as quickly as I do. After a
couple of miles chatting to the inspirational Tom Garrod (just past Rhayadar on
his return leg as I write this!!!!) I found myself alone for the next 14 miles.
On the approach to the shop and Post Office at Llangaffo I saw Gordon Hughes,
Vic Owens and another runner ahead being filmed by Kelp&Fern who had made a
beautiful film of the previous Lon Las featuring Gordon. I passed them and
headed to the shop for an early lunch of a sandwich, crisps, and plenty of
drinks.
It was quite warm but incredibly humid and my back was
soaked despite a conservative pace, so fluids were going to be important. I took my time outside the shop to top up my
bottles, add tailwind to one and ensure everything was “just so” before I
headed off. I had a list of everything I
wanted from each stop in the race and planned to keep my race pack tidy,
organised and well packed to prevent hard spots that might chafe or bruise. I worked
on the assumption that time spent early in the race being sensible would be
paid back with interest later when I could still find everything where it was
meant to be, and I wasn’t horribly sore from a bottle digging into a Kidney or
something. 20 miles down, 10 miles to the water checkpoint at Menai.
Anglesey is gently undulating but, other than the constant
roar of jets from the nearby RAF Valley there was little to look at other than
Snowdonia looming at me from over the Menai Straits. We passed through a
village called Llandaniel whose sign had FAB written underneath. My eldest is
called Daniel and, whilst I agree that he is FAB, I’m not sure about the
“Saint” part (Llan being Welsh for Saint). But it put a smile on my face as I
eased into Menai and over the bridge, catching David Harvey as we entered
Checkpoint 1. We both quickly filled our bottles and left. There was really nothing to hang around for.
The checkpoint was under a support tower at the far end of the bridge and won’t
be featuring in Welsh tourist brochures any time soon.
I was aware the signposts for Cycle Route 8 got a bit freaky
as we left (I’d covered the whole route many times on Streetview, Komoot and
other’s Strava tracks – obviously) but was still caught out a little. We were
following route 8 to Caernarfon but there was also route 5 which often took a
different route to us but ended up re-joining and re-crossing. And route 8
itself seemed to have more than one option. David and I seemed to choose
different options each time and sometimes I would emerge ahead, sometimes it
was David who gained a hundred meters or so. But we smiled and shrugged each
time we looped back together. It was all good fun and helped to pass the time.
I stopped at a public toilet near a Marina at about 35
miles. I didn’t need the loo, but I thought it sensible to have a “little clean-up”
and re-apply lube down below. I was
using a pack of anti-back wipes – invigorating! – and Tom’s Butt Wipes which
had served me well in the past. Again,
all planned in as I felt five minutes on Chafe preventing now would be paid
back many times over later in the race. We now joined a path that ran flat and
West along the North Coast with the Menai Straits into Caernarfon which arrived
more quickly than I’d anticipated.
I headed for Nemo’s Chippy in the main square and got 2 lots
of Sausage and Chips (not intentionally, Double Sausage & chips must mean
different things in different places) and enough drinks for the final 20 miles
into checkpoint 2 and the first access to our bags. I sat outside and made up
my tailwind and ate my tea (too quickly) before heading out of Caernarfon and
onto a lovely cycle path that ran for 10 miles alongside a railway. Trees
formed a tunnel in parts, and we were often crunching through crisp Autumn
leaves. This was what I’d had in mind when I’d signed up for a run through
rural, autumnal Wales. It was fabulous.
David and I were still to-ing and fro-ing as he was quicker
than me but having to take regular breaks due to stomach issues. We settled in
together and passed several miles chatting about Metallica, the 30th
anniversary of the Black album and the (very) impending birth of his daughter.
I was thoroughly enjoying myself until we turned off the cycle route, across
some roadworks and up a near vertical farm track. My god. Not for the last time
grappling hooks would have been helpful getting up that. Thankfully it was only
a few hundred meters and was followed by a gentle descent for several miles along
deserted country lanes towards Checkpoint 2 in Criccieth.
Darkness arrived slightly ahead of CP2 so I was all lit up
like a Christmas Tree (somebody else’s description, not mine) as we hit a final
steep climb before dropping into the seaside town. I passed a couple of groups
of runners on the climb. I love climbing. I like to think it is a Manx thing as
you can’t really run anywhere on the Island without hitting at least a 10%
incline and there are plenty double that. I arrived at CP2 to find only one
other runner and he was just leaving.
But I was soon joined by the 2 groups I’d just passed, David and another
runner who had been just behind David and I since Caernarfon. I was following my 18-point CP checklist,
designed to take 30 minutes – it did – whilst everyone else just seemed to grab
a couple of things and be gone. It felt like I lost a lot of time to everyone
there but I just had to trust in the planning. I’d rather be sure I had
everything I needed for the next 40 miles of hilly, night-time running
especially with rain forecast.
I changed shoes and socks. I started the race in standard
size 11 hoka Clifton but knew my feet would swell so had size 11E for the rest
of the race. Actually, I probably would have benefitted from the extra width 15
miles earlier but that wasn’t possible. I made myself a flask of huel and drank
it, opened a can of self-heating coffee, and left it to heat and then activated
my self-heating all-day breakfast pouch.
I grabbed my bag of snacks for the next 40 miles along with the printout
including maps, directions, the location of every shop and toilet along with
opening times, and an elevation profile. Then I had another careful “clean-up”
and lube before restocking my toilet kit with fresh wipes. I studiously
re-packed everything carefully to ensure I could find what I needed, grabbed my
now hot all-day breakfast, and reminded myself to walk slowly out of the
checkpoint. I’d just taken on quite a lot of liquid calories and had hot food
to eat. Attempting to move quickly now would likely result in indigestion
and/or me burning myself as I tried to eat. I knew it was a decent climb out of
Criccieth so conservatism was the best approach.
Criccieth to Dolgellau (60-100 Miles)
I really struggled with the breakfast. I think the humidity
had left me quite dehydrated and I often struggle to eat solid food after 45/50
miles. I forced down as much as I could
over about 1.5 miles but a good half went in a bin before I risked bringing
everything back up. This wasn’t a great
sign. I had food plans for the whole
race. I’d made and vac-packed pitta
breads with various fillings. I had my
own homemade energy balls of Oats, Manx honey, peanut butter and cocoa. I had
snacks galore of nakd bars, cliff bars, chia bites, Haribo and others. But if my body was rejecting food already, I
might have to switch to liquids only with tailwind, huel and whatever drinks I
could buy along the way. It wasn’t a massive issue as I was used to this happening,
but it was the first deviation from “The Plan” and liquid calories are heavier
and less easy to pack.
My wife called during that first climb, and I explained to
her about the food. She was also quite
relaxed. She knows I frequently train
without any food at all and often race on only liquids. I quickly dropped down
into Porthmadog and passed a group of about five runners as I approached the
petrol station and saw David just coming out. I stopped for some energy drinks
and to make sure I had enough for the rest of the night (30 miles) now that I
was going to be on liquid calories only. The previous group had gone straight
past except for someone called Geoff who was apparently struggling to stopped
to get a bottle of Lucozade in the hope it would knock him out of his funk.
When he did get going again Geoff must have had the highest cadence of any
runner I’ve ever seen. He was the
Michael Flatley of ultras, legs a-blur as he crossed the bridge across the
estuary into Portmerion and the start of our first “real” climb. And what a
climb!
I quickly re-passed the other group as we started with a 20%
gradient for half a mile. I could see some lights ahead and assumed one was
David but when I caught and passed them, I think I caught the dulcet tones of
Karl Shields amongst a small group and was informed “Congratulations. You’ve
just walked yourself into 2nd place”. This wasn’t what I wanted to
hear. Claire and Sarah were under instructions not to tell me my placing until
at least 200 miles and, even then, only if there was a chance of me doing
something about it. I’d entered the race
with the plan of winning it but that plan involved doing my own thing and
sticking to my own pace until much later-on before any actual racing took
place.
We hit thick fog – visibility was just about out to the edge
of the single-track rode – before we began the very steep descent down to CP3
where I refilled my bottles and was caught by David and another runner called
Stephen who must have also enjoyed the hills.
I may love climbing but I am no fan of steep descents. They destroy the quads and bruise and blister
your feet, so I had taken it easy down there. I hadn’t remembered passing David
– having been told I was 2nd I’d assumed he was 1st – but
it seemed he’d made another mistake and I’d probably passed him as he retraced
his steps. As it happened, I also made a mistake as we entered a little cluster
of villages around the small town of Llanfair. I’d spotted a lovely, big old
pub, restaurant and hotel. Unfortunately, it was on the far side of a left turn
I should have taken but I was so admiring the pub I walked straight past. Luckily, I checked my watch soon after,
realised I was off-route and headed back.
I was sure I’d been passed by Stephen and David due to this
and, sure enough, I spotted them as we all came down a much gentler descent
towards the West coast and the run towards Barmouth. Then it started raining.
Really quite hard. I had a lightweight jacket on and wanted to stick with it if
possible as it was still very warm, so I took a chance on it not lasting and
caught the other two. David was too quick on the flat stuff for Stephen and I
and soon left us behind and we settled in together for a chat to pass the dark
hours South along the coast. We were 85 miles in – a full Parish Walk – and I
still felt good. Yes, the legs were a
little tired from the climbs and the feet a little sore but nothing of
concern. We began discussing what to do
about the diversion ahead.
The Sustrans 8 route goes over an old wooden rail bridge at
Barmouth and then heads up a trail along the South bank of the river Mawdach.
But the bridge was closed for maintenance.
We had to head up the north side of the river along an A road and then
make a choice. We could head across a
toll bridge we new to be closed but for which we had permission to scale a high
gate to get across and join the original path into CP4 at Dolgellau. Or we
could ignore the toll bridge and continue along the main road adding nearly a
mile but removing the need to scale the gates. I’d already decided I was taking
the long route. Stephen wanted to go
over the gates, but we had 7/8 miles to do before then, so we settled in to
walk the ups and run the downs of a phenomenally dull bit of constantly
undulating A road. It was just dull, dull, dull and I had my first negative
thoughts of the race so far, realising I would be in Dolgellau in time to get a
train to Cardiff and spend a lovely few days with my Wife and Sister. I never seriously considered it but it was
the first time such thoughts entered my head and I had to remind myself why I
was doing the race and that there were bound to be tough parts. Especially at 3 am, in pitch dark, running
along an A road in the drizzle with the next checkpoint never seeming to get
nearer.
As we approached the right turn for the toll bride Stephen
persuaded me to at least go and have a look – although I’d seen it online and
knew I wasn’t getting over it. Sure enough, it was a good 2 meters tall with
fancy ironwork on top that made climbing it impossible. There was a low gate to the left onto a balcony
that ran around two sides of the toll both. But that ended in a 2 meter drop
onto possibly marshy land and then a scramble up the bank of the river. Stephen was still contemplating this when I
suggested we at least check the gates in-case the owner had left it open. After
all, he knew we were coming. I climbed back over the low gate, checked the main
one and, sure enough, a small access gate built into the main gate had been
left open for us. Stepehen and I shoved some money into an honesty box and
passed through, singing the praises of the kind man who had been so thoughtful.
It was then a short and pleasant jog into Dolgellau and CP4
in the Rugby Club changing rooms. We
knew the route took us all the way around a big recreation ground littered with
Rugby pitched and then back along a road to the Car Park where the club house
was situated. However, we saw a very bright torch shining at us from across a
couple of pitched, clearly trying to guide us in, so we took a chance that the
pitched hadn’t become too rutted or muddy just yet and headed towards out
guiding light who turned out to be Karen who was to be looking after us at CP4.
As we arrived, David was just leaving, clearly having made much better time
along the road section than we did. He
asked whether we’d climbed the gates or taken the big drop as he’d gone for the
big drop. “Neither” we replied. “We went
through the unlocked gate” and then burst laughing at the look on his face as
he explained it HAD been marshy ground he’d dropped into.
At CP4 I think I was ten minutes slower than CP2 which I
don’t understand. It was indoors so I
could actually see what I was doing, and I didn’t need to grab food or heat my
meal pack this time. I still felt solid foods would cause me problems, so I
concentrated on getting liquid calories in, mixing my drinks for the next
section, changing shoes and socks and giving myself another thorough clean and
tidy before Stephen and I headed out together to a slightly lightened sky and a
very cool, clear morning ahead of the two huge climbs ahead.
Dolgellau to Rhayader (100-150 Miles)
Stephen and I quickly headed through Dolgellau and made the
right turn that starts the first climb of the day up towards and major
road. It heads up some farm tracks and
heads down a short while before we dog legged over the road, through a gate and
started the second part of that climb up a decent single lane road. It was steep but not too long and it was now
definitely morning and already starting to warm up. I took a couple of opportunities up here to
just turn and admire the view; okay, I was checking behind to see if anyone was
behind us as well.
Then there was a long descent into a little village called
Corris. It started very steep and,
ordinarily, I would walk these whilst leaning forwards and using a really high
cadence to take the load of the feet and quads, but Stephen was jogging them,
so I kept stride alongside him and we got to the bottom of the steep section
and onto more runnable, gentle slopes down for a few miles into Corris. I needed the toilet by now but I new there
was one in the village just 120 meters off route, so I was holding on. I jogged
on ahead to get to the loo and checked my directions with a couple out for a sunny
Friday morning walk and yes, they were just ahead on the left. However, they were also locked. So back up
the path and I gave chase to re-catch Stephen.
Never mind. There are
toilets in Machynlleth and, as Stephen had run this only a few weeks before, he
was confident it was just around the next corner. In fact, he was confident it was just around
the next corner for every corner between Corris and Machynlleth. And that was a LOT of corners! We eventually
came to a spot where a new road and bridge were being built just outside the
town from which we could finally see it.
I knew there were cafés and shops, and the toilets were just opposite
the Spar shop. I pointed Stephen to a coffee
shop for a caffeine boost and I headed to the loos. This time the ladies were open but the men’s
were locked. So that was nice. I headed
back to the Spar and bought supplies as we were unlikely to see anything but
water for the next 30+ miles. As I came back
out, I saw Stephen with his coffee. I
stopped to pack everything, and we headed out for the 9 mile climb to the
highest point of the course followed by a short drop to Dylife and the water-only
CP5 at half-way; still needing the toilet!
My race plan had me in Machynlleth for 11:30 but we were there
an hour ahead so we had a bit of time in the bank. We knew David had been about 30 minutes up
leaving CP4 and a guy called Jamie was leading but I had not seen him at all
and we’d been told he was miles ahead.
There didn’t seem to be anyone close behind so we could just focus on
getting up the big climb of the day – indeed, the whole race – efficiently but
without expending too much energy as it was now hot and only going to get
hotter as we approached lunch. The road
up was very narrow but seemed to be used by HGVs and larger delivery vans a
LOT. It was about 1 ½ car widths so if
you saw something coming from one direction you quickly had to check the other
way and, if there was something there, stop and get off the road. I had finally found a discreet spot, off the
road, to go to the toilet and re-apply my anti-chafe, I had all the food and
drink I needed, and the views were just getting better and better as we
climbed. It really was an amazing two
and a half hours.
Stephen’s wife had been meeting us in Machynlleth but, with
us being a bit ahead of schedule, she had missed us so drove up the climb and
pulled alongside about half-way up, which gave me a bit of a shock. The only slight frustration with the climb
was that, on the elevation profile it looked like a steady, continuous climb
with a few slightly steeper parts. In
reality, it would go up steeply for a mile, then drop for a few hundred meters,
then a really steep bit to regain height before another plunge. So, although we only gained somewhere around
1300ft, we must have climbed well over 2000ft.
But despite the heat, the traffic and the deceptive height
gain we actually made great progress and I was thoroughly enjoying it. Over the
top there was a mile or two down to CP5 where I performed my usual half-way
song of “Living on a Prayer” by Bon Jovi. “Woah, we’re half-way there. Woah woah.
We’re running on a prayer”. This
was performed to great excitement and enthusiasm by the checkpoint collie dog
and general apathy/distaste by Stephen who felt he’d already suffered enough.
From CP5 it descends in much the same way as it had
climbed. Steep in parts and with several
unexpected climbs to interrupt your flow. We were following signs for
Staylittle before making a right towards Halfren forest where we very much
hoped the traffic would be light to non-existent and we could perhaps relax a
little. Again, despite the elevation profile showing a fairly continuous
descent all the way from CP5 to CP6 we were encountering a lot of short, sharp
climbs. They may have been too short to register on the profile but there were
plenty long and steep enough to register in the legs and, perhaps more so, the
head.
I was starting to get low on water now but I had sterilising
tablets and filter caps for my bottles so I could fill them from any water
source, wait half an hour and have safe water to drink. However, I knew there
was a public toilet in the forest car park so I decided to wait and see if I
could top-up from a tap in there. It
seemed to take quite a while to reach them. I think I’d added a few “Bonus
miles” by now, with all the trips to closed toilets and various shops. My watch was telling me I should be at some
know marker, like the forest car park, when we were really, still 3 miles or so
shy. That was becoming a bit of a mental issue as it was quite
disheartening. At the pace we were
moving now – about 4mph – 3 miles was another 45 minutes!
But we got there, and the toilets were open. At last! And they didn’t have a sink. What? A
toilet, a urinal. But no sink. I knocked on the door of the ladies but
there’s were the same. I can safely say
I have never come across a toilet, public or otherwise, without some kind of
sink or tap. Even in Brazil, where some
of the facilities were well below basic, there was always a tap of some
sort. Luckily there was a lovely little
stream bubbling away next to the carpark and it took little time to fill my
bottles, pop in a sterilising tablets and screw on the filter caps. I was even able to make up some Huel for later.
Now we did have a very runnable downhill section from
Halfren towards Llandiloes. This is where Stephens focus and discipline really
helped us. The afternoon was passing into early evening. We were running
through a stunning valley with a river churning down to our right as we pass
farms and cottages straight out of a James Herriot novel. I would have switched
to a power walk which I can do with little energy expenditure or focus. But it would eventually tire my hips. Stephen kept us on a walk/jog all the way
into the dark which, I’m sure, kept everything fresher by spreading the load
more evenly between muscle groups. It also
helped to break the run up into more manageable chunks.
It seemed to get dark quite quickly. We’d made the right
turn to head South just before Llandiloes (139) at 17:30 and the next target
was a small village with two pubs at 141 miles. Again, this section had some phenomenally
steep climbs, despite being “all downhill” and someone in the village had lit
their fire without getting their chimney swept and was now covering the whole
area in smoke, obscuring the last of the twilight from the sky. Rhayadar was
down as 150 miles and the first checkpoint with an area set aside for
sleep. Stephen began talking about how
he planned to get 2-3 hours in once he had sorted out his kit. He reasoned that Jamie was so far ahead he’d
be gone. David was either there sleeping
or would have headed off after Jamie and so there was a chance we would have
the place to ourselves making peaceful sleep easier. I told him I would try but
did mention that I can’t really sleep on demand. I need to be already on the verge of falling
asleep otherwise I just lie there uncomfortable, hot, and worrying about the
time I am losing. I sleep on my side and
sore hips from 2 long days of running would likely make sleep impossible unless
I arrived in Rhayadar on my last legs and, right then, I still felt good. So,
we agreed that I would try but if, after half an hour, sleep wasn’t coming, I
would head off on my own and leave him to rest.
But first there was the small matter of the run in to
Rhayadar. Looking back now it seems obvious. The village with the pubs was 141
miles. Rhayadar was 150. That’s 9 miles so probably 2 ½ hours. And
looking back at Strava that is how long it took within a few minutes. But our
watches were showing telling us we had run further than we had, and our
sleep-addled brains were no longer capable of doing the simple maths required
to make allowances for this. Throw in a second night and another section of
downhill that was anything but and we were getting a bit frustrated. Rhayadar just didn’t seem to be getting any
closed. To add to the confusion the
signposts in mid Wales are just unreliable.
You could see a signpost for Rhayadar marked 9 miles. Then another saying 10. Then another back to
9. Then another saying 9. You’ve run a few miles and, seemingly, got
nowhere closer to where you’ve been heading.
My watch can display the distance to the next checkpoint. I’d chosen not to use it as I was worried I
would clock-watch and then time would seem to drag as it ticked down more
slowly than I would wish. I’m sure that
is true but not knowing at all felt far, far worse.
I started Yawning an hour or so (probably) from the
checkpoint so I began to feel more like I might be able to sleep and get a bit
of much needed rest. We got there at 21:30, half an hour ahead of my pacing
plan so we had lost a bit but that was because my pacing plan had assumed a
steady, continuous descent and it had been anything but. There was no sign of
David at the checkpoint. He had gone
straight through without sleep. Jamie was
there having just been woken and was having something to eat and getting his
kit sorted. As I was going through my
usual checklist, another runner arrived, delivered by the “Meat Wagon” meaning
he had dropped out been driven there to sleep before making arrangements to get
himself home the next morning.
I finished my checklist, grabbed my sleeping bag, and headed
to the furthest, darkest corner of the hall. I quickly realised earplugs would have
been sensible. Jamie was getting his kit
together, ready to head back out but, despite his sleep was clearly still a
little uncoordinated and was dropping bits of kit onto the wooden floor. The guy who had dropped out was in his
sleeping bag a few feet away but chatting on his phone to someone. Add to this that my hips ached within a few
minutes of turning onto either side and it rapidly became obvious that, tired
as I was, sleep was not going to happen here.
I quickly decided to pack-up my sleeping bag, grab my kit and head out
hoping to find a quieter and more comfortable spot for rest out on route.
Rhayadar to Llanfrynach – 150 – 203
Jamie and I left CP6 together but he needed to call his wife and let her know so I headed off into the darkest of dark nights at about 22:30 feeling a little guilty about leaving Stephen behind after nearly 70 miles together but also excited at the prospect of running through the second night trying to chase down David. I’d been told he was well ahead of me, so I wasn’t expecting to catch him. But I wanted to win, and if people started to tell David that there was someone chasing him and eating into his substantial lead then he might start to make mistakes. I already knew (from David) that his navigation wasn’t great. He had been having problems with his guts since 30 miles and the trail from 100 miles was dotted with patches of vomit suggesting he still wasn’t able to keep food in. It all seemed a bit unlikely given his lead, and you certainly never want to see a fellow runner drop-out, but if he got tired and low on energy it is surprising how quickly a lead can disappear as 4mph becomes 2mph or less.
Case in point was Jamie. He’d had a huge lead but was now in
3rd. And as I left CP6 and began a steep climb up a rough farm track
up and over to Newbridge-on-Wye, I built a 30-minute lead over him in just 10
miles or so. The surface on that track appeared to have been designed by Beelzebub
to torment the soles of runners with battered feet but the night had cleared to
leave a beautiful starry sky and I was out running by myself at night. I was in
my element and absolutely loving it. I
passed through the pretty Newbridge onto a short section of dedicated cycle
path lined with hedges and then saw a small copse off to my left through a
broken wooden gate. I slid under the gate – just – and found in the middle a
huge oak surrounded by dry, soft moss. I
took my hi-vis off and laid it down as a ground sheet, used my pack as a pillow
and very quickly dozed off.
I think I got 10-12 minutes but woke up very cold. The
temperature had dropped from +20C during the day to around 4C at night and,
whilst I’d put extra layers on, I was dressed for moving and I’d lost a lot of
heat. I was also sure I’d heard someone
go past whilst asleep so assumed I was now in 3rd but that was
fine. I would be moving better now. I
got dressed – bad idea – and then tried to slide back under the broken gate.
And my pack got stuck. Doh! Pack off, back under, pack on. That was a waste of
time and energy. A mile or so later I
was still cold, so I made another stop to get my waterproof jacket and
over-trousers out of my pack. This meant
removing my shoes first and wasted yet more time but better that that
hyperthermia! As I was just getting everything back on Jamie caught me up,
which rather confused me as I has assumed it was him who had passed me whilst
asleep. All in all, I had spent 20
minutes having my 10-minute nap and now another 10 putting on warmer layers, which
is how I eventually calculated I’d built a 30-minute lead in 10 miles.
Feeling protected from the cold air and a little rested I
got back on it. I was power walking at
about 14-15 minutes per mile and it felt fairly effortless. I quickly re-passed
Jamie and headed on into the beautiful town of Builth Wells. The route through was a bit confusing. We seemed to loop back on ourselves a bit and
the final exit onto the path out of the town wasn’t really signposted, but my
watch was guiding me well and I would occasionally check my smartphone with
online maps if I needed a bigger picture of the route to get things sorted in
my head. Talking of my head. Whilst I
didn’t feel sleepy and was in a happy state of mind my eyes were starting to
play tricks. Anytime light was shining
on an object ahead – i.e. always as I was wearing a headtorch – my brain was
trying to make sense of the patterns created.
Especially so if a few objects were clustered together. And the pattern
the brain recognises most easily is the human form, so I was starting to see
people up ahead all the time. Sometimes
alone. Sometimes in groups. In one
particularly gruesome case I saw the body of a small child clearly hanging from
a tree. I could see if from a long way off and all the way until I was a few meters
short when I realised a streetlight from across a river was dappling through
the leaves of the tree and the dark and light patches had been rearranged into
a shape my brain could interpret. I
won’t forget that image for a long time.
After Builth Wells there was a long road section that we had
repeatedly been told would probably result in our deaths from locals who used
it as a racetrack. Part of my race plan had been to get there in the small
hours in the hope it would be mostly traffic-free and any traffic that did come
would be visible from a distance due to its headlights. This worked exactly as planned. I saw six vehicles along the 7 mile stretch
and they all gave the walking Christmas Tree a wide birth. I got into CP7 at
Erwood for a bit after 5am so now exactly on schedule after using some time up
at CP6 and sleeping/swapping clothes on he way.
All time well spent. A lovely
couple were manning CP7 and they were from “Down South” so were able to give me
a bit more information about the Taff Trail that we would be following from
Merthy into Cardiff.
I left them at about 05:30 and decided that, if I was to
survive the next day well, some more sleep would be a good idea and it would be
best to get this done whilst there was still no traffic and before the sun
started to rise. Luckily, the next
section after CP7 was a very quiet cycle path – I think someone said it was a
converted railway – and there was a nice, dry ditch for me to curl up in almost
immediately after I’d set off. I may have had 10 minutes, but I doubt it. I probably spent more time finding a spot,
getting my pack off, getting settled, getting back up and dressed and moving
again than I spent sleeping but I’d given it a go and got a few minutes and
that had felt important. I guess dry
ditches just don’t make such comfortable beds as mossy oaks!
I knew there were a couple of villages to break up the next
section before a significant climb and descent into Brecon at 200 miles and the
start of the Beacons. These villages became my targets and I got back into a
good pace as the sun finally began to show the night what’s what. It was a flat
run into the first, Glasbury, at 185 miles and I was half an hour down on my
race plan but unconcerned. I’d had a short sleep and felt very good
indeed. There were sections ahead where
my race plan assumed I would be struggling but If I carried on like this, I
would be making time, not losing it.
As the morning progressed it became clear that we were in
for another hot day, so I stopped at the shop in Glasbury and grabbed a sports
drink, a canned latte and a magnum choc-ice, the first solid-ish food to pass
my lips in over 100 miles. It was
gorgeous. Best magnum ever. The next
town was Talgarth, a lot bigger than Glasbury and there was a bit of a climb up
and over past Three Cocks to reach it. I’d checked the maps on my phone and saw
my old school friends were very excited that I was passing somewhere called
Three Cocks, so I stopped to get a photo and sent it to them. Other than phone calls with my support team
this was the only contact I’d had with all those following me. I was constantly aware of the amazing level
of support going on back on the Ise of Man and elsewhere as people were “Dot
Watching” my progress across Wales. But whilst I could see the many hundreds of
messages and took time to read some, I wasn’t able to respond at all. My
smartphone was for navigation and was kept in flight mode to save battery unless
needed to find my way, at which point dozens of messages would appear all at
once. I was using an old Nokia “Dumb”
phone for calls but only my support team, race organisers, and my parents had
the number for that.
At Talgarth I headed to the Co-Op and, with a newfound
confidence that my stomach was now able to deal with food, I got a tuna and
sweetcorn sandwich as well as lots of drinks.
The climb was approaching, it was close to midday and the heat was astonishing
for Wales at any time, let alone mid-October. Unfortunately, I tried to eat the
sandwich too quickly and it was a lot drier than I’d expected (probably cut
back on the Mayo to meet some government calorie target!), and I ended up
choking on it a little and gave myself a touch of heartburn. Then I started coughing. And coughing. I was bringing up quite a lot
of horrible phlegm that had bits in it light rolled oats. I decided to put this down to the Huel
mix. It did contain oats and I was
making it far too thick to get more calories in me, so it was coating my throat
and must have started irritating it. This carried on most of the way to the
finish, but I needed the calories, so I calculated it was worth a bit of a
loose cough.
Of course, back on the Island and in isolation for 10 days
with COVID-19, I now know that the loose cough was the beginning of Covid
symptoms. This thought never crossed my mind during the race but, looking back,
I’m not sure the weather was really as hot as I felt it was. I probably had a
temperature to go with my covid-cough. I suspect I caught Covid from someone on
the ferry over from the Island on the Wednesday morning. Certainly, the man sat directly behind me on
the boat had spent the entire 4 hours kindly coughing onto the back of my head
without a mask or covering his mount, so he is a prime suspect. But that’s all
speculation. What I know for certain is that I did the race with Covid and was
probably symptomatic from the Saturday afternoon. But I had no way of knowing
as the symptoms matched those of someone running far too far and for far too
long with little sleep.
The climb out of Talgarth went by in a blur of heat and
coughing and I began to plan what I might want to stock-up on in Brecon before
heading to CP8, 3 miles further on. Brecon could have been the last shop I saw
if I went well. There would be a 24-hour McDonalds in Merthyr but, after that,
I hoped to be in Cardiff before anywhere was open. This meant it was crucial to
get high-calorie fluids from Brecon to supplement my dwindling supplies of
tailwind and huel for the climb over the beacons and the last dash along the
Taff Trail into Cardiff. There was a
Morrisons just off the route but I knew there was an Aldi a little further on
and it didn’t require a diversion, so I went for that. Oh dear!
As soon as I walked in, I spotted packs of four cans of
double-shot lattes. Perfect. I grabbed
one and headed to the nearest checkout.
There were only three and they all had 3-4 groups in the queue and all
had trolly’s, not baskets, except for this one where a group of “Young Folk”
had stopped to grab lunch and were queuing behind just two trolleys. That’ll
do. The first trolley belong to a lady
who had a load of discount vouchers and coupons, none of which seemed to work.
The poor checkout girl was so patient with her as she scanned every coupon in
her purse in the hope it might apply to the contents of her trolley. They
didn’t. The manager was called for one because that should have applied. Except
it was two weeks out of date! Brilliant.
It was so hot, I was knackered, my mask felt let it was cooking my face and my
sense of humour was evaporating. Luckily for me, the next trolley was also
returning something they had bought a few weeks ago which involved he manager,
a trip off to another computer, a few minutes wait and the annoyance of the
“Youths” who clearly thought old people were incompetent technophobes who
shouldn’t be allowed out to delay their important lunches. And I was starting
to agree.
Now it was the Youths.
Just some sandwiches, drinks, and snacks. Except one of them had taken a single can
from one of the four-packs of coffee I’d also chosen and they clearly said,
“Not Sold Separately”. She had to swallow her pride and head back around the
supermarket and grab the other three and come back around again and through the
queue. Whilst we’re waiting, the ultra-patient
woman on the checkout glances at me to apologise for the delay and notices what
I’m wearing – and possibly the smell – and asks if I’m cycling or running. “Running” I reply. “You look like you’ve run a long way?”. “Yes,
from Holyhead”. The queue went quiet and even the “Youths” stared in
disbelief. “Sorry, did you say
Holyhead?”. “Yes. I set off on Thursday
morning and I’ve run 200 miles. I’ve got 50 more to get to Cardiff by tomorrow”.
This got unexpected looks of admiration from “The Youths” and the checkout lady
was awash with kind words when she heard I was doing it for a Children’s
charity.
20 minutes lost in Aldi, and I still had a horribly hot run
in to CP8 at Llanfrynach. This felt a lot longer than 3 miles and I was already
down to 3 cans of latte when I finally arrived at the village hall and found
the infamous Mr Cockbain, Race Director, and torturer of deluded ultrarunners,
manning the checkpoint himself. It was
the first time I’d seen him since Thursday night at Criccieth, so I made sure
to look happy and comfortable and talk down any problems I was having. You
can’t let him know he’s winning 😉
Llanfrynach to Merthyr – 203 – 228
I was my usual 30 minutes or so at CP8, the last indoor
checkpoint and the last chance to get anything from our drop-bags that we
thought we might need for the pull over the mountains to Merthyr or the final
push through to Cardiff. I had another good clean-up, but this time nearly
screamed the place down. Despite my
caution it seems I was now suffering from some chafing downstairs and the
anti-bac wipes nearly sent me through the roof.
I re-applied the 2Toms Butt Wipes, and then decided I’d better change my
undershorts just to be sure (to be sure). It was now mid afternoon and would be
starting to get dark and cool down within a few short hours but, for now, it
was still hot outside, so I stuck to light layers. I carried a long sleeved top and lightweight
jacket with me in addition to the full waterproofs in-case it got too cold up
in the mountains or later-on that night when I would be moving more slowly.
Mark explained that tracking was often poor in the Beacons
as there wasn’t much of a phone signal up there. So, if I was planning a nap could I let them
know now so that they didn’t worry. I told
him that I planned to have a nap on the way up and probably another on the way
down in the hope that this would leave me reasonably fresh for the final run to
the finish from CP9. This agreed, I headed off with a pack waaay heavier than
when I’d left Holyhead on Thursday but knowing there was a good chance that,
water aside, I wouldn’t get the chance to collect anything else before the
finish. Best to be carrying a little bit too much than not enough.
Leaving CP8 I headed along some lovely, quiet lanes, gently
sloping upwards and tried to ignore the heat. I knew I was headed to Talybont
reservoir but, again, was having trouble reconciling the distance showing on my
watch with the distances in my route guides. I knew Talybont to be about 4 miles from CP8,
which was at 203 miles. Except, my watch
was already showing 208 and I wasn’t there yet.
Sat here those numbers are easy to deal with but, at the time, I
couldn’t hold any thought or figure in my head long enough to carry out even
the simplest mental arithmetic. On reflection, I should have stopped my watch
when I arrived at CP8 or maybe even Brecon at 200 miles. I could then simply start it again from
scratch knowing I had a good base reference from which to work everything out. But I didn’t.
And the next 20+ hours can be in some large part be attributed to my
watch showing me the “wrong” distance from the start, my not knowing how far
away things were ahead, and my inability to perform basics maths to reconcile
the two.
Having left the hall at 14:30, I reached Talybont at about
15:40 to find a running event taking place.
People were taking part in a Brecon Beacon’s half, marathon or ultra, up
and around the hills above the reservoir. I crossed the reservoir wall and
headed up a rocky forest track which, my notes told me, was 7 miles of steady
climbing followed by a “few” short descents and 1-mile climbs before dropping
straight down to Merthy. That sounded
simple. The track wasn’t great underfoot and I was forever switching from one
line to another to find the least rocky or most overgrown to protect the soles
of my bruised feet. I’d managed to avoid blisters – actually, that’s
untrue. I had them but they weren’t
bothering me at all – but the bottoms of my feet were still bruised and tender
from 200+ miles of mostly tarmac. I started to lose the light early. I was in a
plantation with high hills all around so, although the sun hadn’t officially
set, it had from where I was. I decided to get that nap in before it got cold
and eventually found a likely looking spot off to one side and settled down
with a timer set for 15 minutes.
Unfortunately, after about half that time and not really having had any
sleep, a kindly walker spotted me and rushed over to check I was okay. A perfectly
reasonable and, indeed, responsible thing to do when you see someone lying
prone at the side, several miles up a steep track but that was the end of any
attempts to get some sleep on the way up.
I quickly got back into my climbing stride, and, despite a few false
summits, I reached the top in about 2h40 where I stopped to put on my
waterproofs. It was now nearly dark and getting cold and I wouldn’t be
generating the same heat now I was no longer climbing.
My race notes of a “few” short climbs proved hopelessly
optimistic. I recall a lot more than a
few. However, Strava shows that it was only six miles more before I “should”
have begun the descent into Merthy. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I still felt strong and like I was moving
well, although my pace had dropped. It
was night and a lot of the surfaces were rocky, so it was tough going. It was
very much up and down with both being very steep and I still had no idea how
far away things were. I stopped for another nap, as promised, and, whilst I fell
asleep, I don’t think I got more than a few minutes.
I was coming down through Taf Frechan forest and knew there
was a hairpin back towards a small village I couldn’t pronounce (Ponsticill).
Coming down the track I saw some cars parked on a hairpin bend and people out
walking their dogs with even more cars coming up from below. I began to wonder
if I’d stumbled across some meeting point where the locals like to drive up to
a secluded point in the dark and check out each other’s dogs!!!! But this was
what I was looking for, so I turned back on myself down the track. The watch quickly started buzzing to tell me
I was “off route”, so I stopped and checked but the watch was showing I was
very close to where I should be; within 30-40 meters. In the mountains and forests,
it is perfectly normal for GPS to be at least that far out, so I wasn’t
concerned. I carried on but my route and
the route the watch thought I should be on kept diverging and nothing was
looking quite as I expected. I thought I
should be through the unpronounceable place by now but that had been happening
all day. Everywhere seemed to be several
miles further than I thought. I ploughed on and cars kept driving up the track.
But I began to doubt myself. I got the
phone out and turned off airplane mode but nothing. That would usually produce endless pings of
messages arriving, but I clearly had no signal, and the GPS was showing me as
being somewhere without a road even though I was clearly stood on one.
I wandered up and down the road, holding my phone out in
front of me which you sometimes need to do for the GPS to figure out which
direction you are really facing. But the
arrow just kept spinning around and wouldn’t settle down. I began to accept
that I was lost, despite a strange sense of having been here before and feeling
I really DID know where I was going, it was just that the physical roads
weren’t quite matching up. I couldn’t call for help but I’d seen some dog
walkers and plenty of cars, so I set back off down the hill and, after 10
minutes or so, saw a headtorch coming up towards me and steeled myself to ask
for help. I don’t like asking for help! “Excuse me.
Do you know if this is the way to Merthyr Tydfil?” I asked politely,
trying not to sound too English. “Of course I don’t, you berk. I’m as lost as you are!”. It was Stephen!
Somehow, between my delay at Aldi, my interrupted nap on the
way up, my nap on the way down and getting lost, not to mention what must have
been a remarkable effort from the man himself, he’d closed the gap from around
10k to zero. Although he’d missed off a
chunk of the up and down bit off the mountains which was how he now found
himself on the same wrong road as me. We
later discovered that he’d missed a right turn up and had carried on along this
bottom road. I had made that turn (and
had a nap), gone up and down as I was supposed to but then turned too early and
was coming back down this bottom road rather than the road to Merthyr.
The turn I made but Stephen missed and went straight on (luckily for me)
Where I bumped into Stephen
Where I should have turned back
It took us both a lot of back and forth trying to figure out
where we were but, without a signal, GPS, or any general overview (my main
mistake. I try to keep a mental image of my overall position even if I rely on
GPS to know exactly) we were lost. So,
we tried to flag down a car but they swerved around us and carried on. Luckily another came along shortly after and
confirmed that Stephen had, at least, been heading in the correct direction and
that, if we carried on back up the steep road I had been running up and down
for quite some time, we would eventually come to the turn down through
Ponsticill and into Merthy. It took a good
while and some more self-doubts but when we did find the turning it was as
obvious as could be. A big, well
sign-posted junction. I’d only been a
couple of hundred yards away before. Looking back, it seems almost impossible
that I hadn’t seen it from where I was, but I was convinced I was taking the
correct turn as I “knew” it was a hairpin bend to my left. How many of those could there my around here?
It had cost me about 90 minutes and added a fair few miles and a few hundred
feet of climbing but we were back on the right track and the “Team” was back
together.
At this point my phone went mental. I had text, WhatsApp, and Facebook messages
galore, not to mention several missed calls. It seems everyone had seen me make
the turn up the track and then my tracker disappeared completely. I’d been
missing from the tracking website for about 2-hours, and nobody had been able
to get in touch with me and things were all a bit frantic back at race support
and race HQ. So, I called Mark to tell
him yes, I had been lost but Stephen and I were now together and knew where we
were going. Then I texted Sarah with
much the same message and relied on the renewed data connection to restore the
tracker signal to let everyone else know I was still moving roughly in the
right direction.
It was now 20:00. I’d left the previous checkpoint at 14:30
and made just 16 miles progress in 5 ½ hours despite travelling closer to 20. And
we were still a looong way from Merthyr.
Not that we knew this. Neither of
us either knew, or could really work out how far away Merthyr was. There were road signs giving distances. But we didn’t know which bit of Merthyr they
were referring to or via what route. I
knew the Taff Trail took us on a loop west and south around Merthyr before
dumping us somewhere in the middle to find our way across a lot of junctions to
a retail park with the aforementioned 24-hour MacDonald’s and a Travelodge,
used by the race-crew to get some much-needed sleep whilst waiting for us to arrive
for some water.
We ploughed on, thankfully downhill, and Stephen really
started pushing. He admitted that he
just wanted to get this section done and get to Merthyr as soon as he could. It
turns out we had just shy of 7 miles to survive and it was just after 10pm that
we arrived at the Checkpoint – although only after taking another wrong turn,
going past, and then having to climb a grass bank to reach Karen and her bottle
of special, “A” grade, restorative mineral water. On the way through the disturbing,
unsettling, and downright scary town of Merthyr – we both concluded nobody
should really attempt that section on their own – we had been discussing our
targets. It seems we had both noticed
that the course record was a fraction over 74 hours, and we both had a target
of under 72 hours, although I think Stephen mentioned 70. I pointed out that
under 72 hours was under three days and would be a major milestone. If we got to CP9 and back out before 22:30 we
believed we would be nailed on for a 72-hour finish. That would leave 8 ½ hours
to cover 25 miles. Under 3 mph!
We topped up our bottles, had a chat with Karen trying to explain how we’d got so hopelessly lost, how we’d bumped into each other and our plans to get in by 7am. She said she’d seen us get back together on the tracker and was glad the “Bromance” was back on after our falling out in Rhayadar 😊 She then told us we were in first place as David had dropped out. We were astonished. We asked why but, understandably, she gave no details at all. She did say that Tom Garrod was third but, last she’d checked, was still at CP8 getting some sleep. We had a 25-mile lead and 8 ½ hours to cover just under a marathon – or so we thought. What could go wrong?
What did go wrong – Merthyr to Cardiff – 228 - ?????????
As we left, I felt physically very good. My legs were still absolutely solid, and I
could comfortably walk at 4mph on the flat if the surface was half-way decent. What
blisters I had were causing no issues, my back and my knees were of no
concern. I was still seeing things
caused by tricks of light and I’d had a funny sense of deja-vu since I got lost
up in the forest, but I was putting that down to having researched this section
a lot over the last eighteen months. I
felt like I had walked it before because, in a way, I had. Albeit virtually.
To start with, Stephen seemed equally well. I was the one now trying to push the pace,
after his efforts into Merthyr. Stephen
was keeping up and we quickly found the Taff Trail and made a wrong turn. Doh! Less than a km and we’d already added a
chunk and lost some time. This was partially because my watch had suddenly
stopped showing the route. It had worked
flawlessly up until now, and I had probably come to rely on it too much. I think that’s why I’d got so hopelessly lost
earlier. I wasn’t keeping track of where I was. I was just relying on the watch
to say, “Turn here”, “Go straight over here”. Now we were reliant on Stephen’s
watch, which had no turn-by-turn, and my smartphone, which wouldn’t last until
the end if I kept it on all the time, and so needed to be used only when really
required.
Looking back, again, I should have stopped my watch
entirely, started a new track and reloaded the route in. I would have had a nice clean slate. 25-ish miles to the finish and I’m sure the
watch would have behaved itself. But
after 64 hours running and almost no sleep such obvious decisions aren’t so
obvious, and I didn’t do it. We made another wrong turn 1k later. Then we got
in a solid 5 ½ miles without a mistake, although some of the navigation was
hard and slow so progress was equally so. We were two hours in and had gone up
a stupidly steep track. So steep, we’d
missed the right turn and decided to sit down in the road for a rest before
heading back down to see where we’d gone wrong.
I think this became part of our problem. We compounded
time-wasting mistakes with time-wasting rests to mentally recover from the blow
of yet another mistake. Stephen was in a bad way by now. We hit a section of
the trail which, although close to a main road, was in amongst trees and shrub.
The path was very poorly maintained making progress difficult and you really
had to watch your feet as you were forever tripping over mounds of tarmac,
pushed up by the roots of trees. I was in front with Stephen following, trying
to put his feet exactly in the same spots as mine to avoid tripping. However,
he dozed off and I heard him grunt as he ran straight into a tree and collapsed
to the ground. I “rushed” over to help
and pulled him up. We took a few moments
to check him over, but he seemed fine. They say you hurt yourself less when you
fall, if you’re relaxed, and he was so relaxed he was fast asleep.
At various points along this section Stephen would stop
running and I would hear him say something, turn to ask him what he’d said,
only for him to shake his head, as if trying to shake himself out of a daydream,
mutter “sorry”, and carry on running. Once, he stopped in front of a patch of
mud and declared that he had been thinking of planting some potatoes here. It
was shortly after this that both our races nearly ended.
Stephen had been running just behind my right shoulder when
I heard him stumble and turned just in time to see him fall, face first, into a
patch of nettles and weeds to the right of the track. He didn’t even put his hands out to stop
himself. He’d been fast asleep. Had he fallen straight, and not slightly to
the right, he would have hit the tarmac with his jaw, nose and probably
forehead and we would have been looking at a serious A&E situation with no
obvious way to get an ambulance crew or stretcher into us.
I announced that we really needed to get some proper
sleep. I don’t really recall what time
it was or where we were, but I felt we needed a good half an hour, maybe more,
if Stephen was going to be able to get to Cardiff at all, let alone winning or
setting any records. I still felt physically good – though not as good as at
Merthyr – but my hallucinations were getting worse, and I was losing my grip on
reality. My sense of déjà vu had now
evolved to the point where, at each navigation point, I was convinced I knew
the way. This was made worse by the fact
that, sometimes, I clearly did – having travelled it on Google Street View.
Other times, not so much and I would lead us on merry diversions across major
junctions and roundabouts, utterly convinced the start of the next section was
“just over here”. But it was “just over
here” often enough to convince myself that I’d done all of this before. As the night wore on, the hallucinations, déjà
vu and overwhelming tiredness had me convinced that I wasn’t IN the race. I was REMEMBERING the race. And, if I was
remembering it all then I must have already finished. And, if I had already finished then, all I
had to do to end this torment and finally get to bed, was to simply remember
the finish.
Every few seconds I was having this fight.
It’s a memory. No, it’s real and you must keep going. No, I can just remember the end. You can’t, the only way to get to the end is
to put one foot in front of the other.
But why? It isn’t real. But it is real.
You’ve got to keep moving.
This fight was being repeated inside my head endlessly and
at speed and it was exhausting and I cried repeatedly as I fought for control
of my own mind, all the while concerned that Stephen – whose name I couldn’t even
remember – was going to fall asleep, and really hurt himself and desperately
trying to work out where we were and how far we had left, something I hadn’t
been capable of for many hours.
It was a literal waking nightmare and I just wanted it to
stop but couldn’t figure out how. Stopping
didn’t make it stop. Running didn’t make
it stop but didn’t seem to bring the end any nearer, either.
Then there’s a gap. I
have a memory of a shop and a kind man trying to open the shop but us already
being there. I don’t know how long. I remember us asking lots of people for
directions, following them, and ending up back where we started. Sometimes we asked someone else. Sometimes it feels like we asked the same
person many times but got different answers. I remember a dog. I remember falling into nettles. I remember it getting lighter and feeling a
little better and the loop in my head, that had been going tens of times a
minute, seemed to slow to something manageable and now we were in a park. I don’t know what park or where, but someone
was walking beside us, and I recognised their voice. At first, I thought it was Stephen’s wife,
Ange, but Ange isn’t Welsh, and this lady had a lovely, light, sing-song Welsh
accent.
It was quite a while before I realised it was Fiona. I’d met
her on Wednesday night at race registration in the Premier Inn car park on
Holyhead. Now she was with us, and I was confused but comforted because she had
a pleasant voice and was saying reassuring things about it not being all that
far, although we were off course. Then I realised I was limping, and my right Achilles
was incredibly sore, and I couldn’t really bend the ankle. I was just shuffling along very slowly. I don’t know when that happened or how long
ago, but the realisation of the pain really snapped me back awake, and I
thought I knew where I was again. I
didn’t. But I wasn’t far off and,
besides, the confidence of knowing, even incorrectly, made me feel much better.
Fiona explained that we had missed a bridge crossing not far
back, but that was okay because we could cross another bridge just here and get
onto the correct side of the Taff. From
there we just followed the riverbank to the final bridge, crossed over, did an
annoying loop for no obvious reason, and finished at the Celtic Ring. We
thanked Fiona and headed over the Bridge with a load of people wearing orange
and “Walking for MS”. There were a lot
of them and, although we were moving slowly, due to my limp, we should have
been going more quickly than they were but there were hundreds of them taking
over the bridge and the embankment path.
Because I now “knew” where we were, I took us back across
the wrong bridge and we needed to double back again. But this seemed more an
annoyance now where, before, it seemed something to despair about. It’s amazing
what difference sunlight can make to the mind. Back with the Orange people and
we were led further down the west embankment. Me convinced I knew the way.
Evidence proving me wrong yet diminishing my confidence not one iota. How I didn’t
get pushed in the river I’ll never know.
I eventually found the correct bridge. Law of averages. If you cross them all you’re bound to find
the right one. The Orange people agreed
that this was the correct bridge but also seemed to feel that the unnecessary
loop around the park was, in fact, entirely necessary so we followed the
strange trail of chanting, placard carrying, orange folk. Out around the park and back towards the
Quay. I could see buildings I knew to be above the Celtic Ring. Once more unnecessary diversion away and through
a playground and over a fence. We should
have stuck with the orange people. They
know.
Then accents we recognised. Voices we knew. They were waving
and cheering. Not long now. Oh? Another
loop out, around, and down? My chance to play the fool and pretend to try to
out sprint whatsisname even though I can barely walk. I pretend to dip over the line as we cross
into the finishing ring, guided by Mark and applauded by a small but enthusiastic
crowd of family and race crew. I shake thingie’s hand and collapse over the
side of the ring. I can’t control my eyes or the huge, heaving sobs but I
realise I don’t really want to. Don’t
need to. Let them run their course. People check if I’m okay.
No.
Not yet.
But I know I will be and, last night, that seemed far from certain.
 |
| (Left to Right) Sister Claire, Me and Wife Sarah |
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| Stephen Davies (Left) and Myself, Joint Winners of the Lon Las Ultra 2021 |
