Lon Las Ultra Revisited 2019..... Lon Last?
BE ADVISED... this blog made me work for it almost as much as the race did. On reading it back I came to the conclusion its because nothing really happened. I planned it, things went right and wrong, I persevered and I finished. So its turned more into a journal of progress than an everyday story of ultra folk and their interactions with the normal people. Or as my wife Harriet put it, "you've written a travel guide" - ouch, tough crowd! That notwithstanding, I was surprised how many people had read LLU Blog #1 as prep for their 2019 race, and so I'll publish this regardless in the hope that at least it helps some people toying with the idea of taking it on in 2021. You have been warned - this could be 30 minutes of your life you won't get back. K
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| Spoiler alert.... |
After the fourteenth time I’d joked aside the question I started to think they may have a point. Why was I going back to do the Lon Las Ultra again? When I first (tentatively) raised the subject with Harriet and once she regained her composure she had said that it would be really hard to motivate myself when I knew I’d finished it before (she was right) and “well I’ve got nothing to prove” could become a crutch for an early exit (she was very nearly right). “Know your why” I sagely pronouce to others when they are considering doing something stupid. I really, really should learn to follow my own advice. But I’ve grown to like 200+ milers as you get a better ratio of race to race stress (a 50 miler for example, carries with it all the same pre race nerves, but you are seemingly done soon after starting). The Hardmoors 200 in May had taken me as close to a cut off as I’d ever found myself and had been a proper challenge for me. In 200+ milers sleep becomes a tactical factor to plan in (whereas up to 150 or so you can just go for it and deal with the consequences later). I like the difficulty of Mark’s races and had (after the fact of course) enjoyed the challenge of the first edition of the race in 2017. The tarmac added it's own pro’s and con’s, there was the unknown quantity of October weather in Wales, and then there’s the glamour of Merthy Tydvill. What’s not to like? And so with this all swirling around into the shape of some sort of reason, I signed up for the 2019 edition of the race almost on automatic pilot.
The Hardmoors 200 in May had very nearly destroyed me and afterwards I went for an extended vacation in the Wilderness of Mojolessness and so Lon Las training was repeatedly deferred. As the race started to show on the horizon I was finally scared into activity and got down to some solid training involving a mix of sprint intervals (to facilitate effortless slow running), treadmill heavy pack incline power walks (to facilitate good pace up the many hills of the middle 150 miles) and a curious 2 mile out and back lap on a local road, ran mostly in the dark, and repeated 10 times which got some raised eyebrows on Strava. The latter served a definite purpose (in my miswired brain anyway) as it allowed for some conditioning to tarmac, kit testing, practice of race admin on the hoof, and monotony familiarisation (Lon Las has a strict no headphones rule so I couldn’t use music to see me through the low points as I do on other races). This training mix came together and other than the usual array of pre-race phantom injuries I was in pretty decent shape as October rolled in (other than being a couple of kilos over my preferred race weight mostly due to having chronic zero chocolate self control - it’s a well recognised medical condition - I carry a card for it and everything)
The macro plan was pretty simple and was based largely on my plan for the 2017 race with a couple of key alterations. I felt fitter and more resilient than in 2017 and could therefore plan for a slightly faster cruising speed when running, and a better mix of run:walk as the race progressed. All bets were off for the latter stages but I upped the estimates for a number of sections based on 2017 actuals. I also wanted a better sleep strategy. My lasting memory of the 2017 edition was some dreadful sections when I was fully in the grip of the sleep demons, falling asleep on my feet, weaving from side to side on the road, and a wave of nausea each time I snapped awake as I started to fall over asleep. As a result my pace on these sections was appalling. While the conventional wisdom is always to “push through” the first night I’d found both on King Offa’s Dyke (where I was the only person to sleep at the first cp) and more emphatically when me and Harriet did the Northern Traverse (when we were in full holiday mode and sleeping loads at each cp), that if I got even a small amount of sleep night 1 it would pay back not just in night 1 but on night 2 as well. Given the make up of Lon Las that’s essential as the race is basically two unequal sections - start to 150 mile cp, and then 150 mile cp through to the finish, with the first section being significantly harder in both terrain and lack of shelter/refuel points. In the first edition I found myself struggling to maintain a decent pace due to sleepiness on far too many occasions resulting in me crashing in, and on, a variety of bizarre places. There had to be an opportunity to do that better.
So I planned a firm push on day 1 at Goldilocks pace (not too hot, not too cold, but just right) with planned refueling stops at Llangaffo general store at 20 miles and Caernarfon Morrisons cafe at 38 miles and to get into and out of cp 2 at Criccieth at 59 miles before the time I’d even arrived there in 2017. Then the short hop to Penrhyndeudraeth (!) spa at 71 miles for treats and restock before it closed for the night, whip through the water only cp 3 at 79 miles, then find somewhere to bivi down get a couple of hours rest, cashing in the time gained over the day. With cut offs at 100 and 150 there was always a risk in sleeping away valuable time early in a race but past experience suggested it was worth it as the rest would reward me with better focus and pace. From there it would be pedal down to cp 4 at Dolgellau for breakfast, then get on with consuming the hardest 50 miles in the race.
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| Smiles before the storm |
So with the plan in mind, I lined up with 21 other fools for the photo at the start, and at 7am prompt we were off. It had rained all night, and the forecast was mixed for the day. It got right on with being “mixed” by starting a downpour 10 minutes into the race, and for the first of many times I deployed the 25p clear plastic poncho to keep the worst off. I was up near the front as we entered a small wood for a mile or so. The streetlights had been more than sufficient in Holyhead itself but once clear of those and in trees the early morning gloom turned into darkness and the headtorch went on. I almost ran straight into Tom and Byron in the woods, neither of whom had their head torches on and must have been directing themselves along the path by intuition - that or they both practiced above average carrot consumption.
The first 60 miles are some of the easiest of the race and progress comes easy. I ran, on and off, with Byron and it was great to see him in good form and very focused on the job in hand. Two years before I’d ran the same section with Ronnie Statton, and it in one of those small world type things, it turned out that Ronnie had been coaching Byron for the race for the last year. In between the odd shower the weather was fantastic and Snowdonia could be seen in the distance. I kept my pace relaxed, breathing steady and through the nose, good posture, and whiled away the time playing the never-grows-dull game of how long can you make a mouthful of rice crispie cake in your mouth without chewing. (I alternated this with the ultra running equivalent of russian roulette where you time how long you dare keep a salt tab in your mouth before the coating dissolves and you get a mouthful of salt).
“Are you running to Cardiff too?” said the shopkeeper as I entered the general store at Llangaffo - so there was at least one runner ahead. Two now then, as Byron didn’t want to stop and had pressed on alone. I purchased a cappuccino, orange juice, water and a couple of locally baked cakes. Lindley was lurking and we chatted briefly as I refilled my water bottles then I pressed on. 20 down, a few to go.
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| Arriving at cp1 with my best Health & Safety Inspectorate look. I'm only missing the clipboard. |
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| CP1 |
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| Lindley doing his best Greek statue impression. Thankfully clothed. |
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| Running god Ronnie Statton, LLU 2017 finisher, whose first question for me inevitably was WHY? |
Now my thoughts turned to the pressing question of the day - what was I going to have to eat at the Morrisons cafe? It was an important stop but equally important was not to get too comfortable. My musings on the matter quickly passed the 8 miles to Caernarfon, and before I knew it I was installed in the cafe with 2 capuchinos, an all day breakfast, an orange juice and a particularly tasty and very rich chocolate and almond brownie that was to last me for another 20 miles. I also met Mrs Byron who had driven for miles to deliver a set of waterproofs to her forgetful husband! Wolfing the food down as quickly as my stomach would allow, I made use of the facilities (helpfully located near the cafe, not 300 meters away at the furthest most reaches of the store), and was back on the trail. All to plan. 38 miles down…
The next 21 miles to the cp at Criccieth are mostly disused railway line and country lanes, but importantly have no refuelling points at all making Morrisons all the more important. I was in good spirits - all the stresses of the few days before the race and the travel to the start long since forgotten - and well over 10% done and dusted with minimal effort. My pace was good and unlike 2017 when I was run/walking this section, I was happily running the lot. The headwind was the only limiting factor, costing a bit of additional energy, but barely anything to get excited about. As close to a perfect start as I could have wished given the usual forecasts of weather doom, and my magnetic ability to attract things that can go wrong.
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| No expense spared. |
As I walked the steady climb out of the town inland eating my steaming beef and rice hotpot from it's bag I reflected on progress. Last year Criccieth was the beginning of the end for many runners as it was the start of the rains that did not stop for 50 hours. This year, I was in a good place, well kitted for the night leg, looking forward to my sneaky sleep, and it wasn’t (at this precise moment) raining, but I was haunted by Byron’s misfortune. He’d been in such good form, so focused, and yet stopped so early on. I was gutted for him. I turned my attention instead to the next two milestones, the spa at Penrhyndeudraeth, and the water only cp 3. Then to find somewhere to sleep.
In 2017 crossing The Cob after Porthmadog was a character building affair with high velocity horizontal machine gun rain. Tonight all was calm(ish) and the poncho stayed tucked away. I arrived at Penrhyndeudraeth without a clear mental shopping list having been preoccupied with other thoughts. As a result I spent too long browsing the shelves and emerged from the shop with a carrier bag of largely unnecessary stuff. I chastised myself, stuffed down a load of food, rammed other food into pockets, filled water bottles and set off again. Unless you expect to hit Barmouth after 6am when the first shop opens, then from this point on there is nothing for a marathon distance all the way to Dolgellau, so in the back of my mind I wanted to be well stocked up.
There’s a reasonable hill on the 8 mile leg to cp 3 at Llanfair and 2017 the wind and rain over the exposed top had gone some way to culling the field. This year the weather was benign and after a good route march up the hill, I trotted steadily down the other side to rendevous with Maxine who was on duty at the water stop. She had clearly not read Mark’s memo as she inadvertently acted like a kind compassionate human being and offered to help me fill my water bottles. The rain had started up again and she commented on my festival grade poncho ensemble. Lindley, who I assumed was sleeping in the car nearby, no doubt shuddered in his sleep. He’s not a poncho fan worrying, fairly, that people wear them and expect them to give warmth like a waterproof does. He’s right of course, and the best way to use them is as a pure barrier layer, like a wearable umbrella. Mine flapped around making me look like some sort of high-vis ghost, but with the air flowing under it I was warm and dry in the rain. I advised Maxine I was planning on biving on the trail in the coming few miles and not to be alarmed if my tracker dot stopped moving for a couple of hours, then I was off down the hill in search of a good spot.
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| Llanbedr toilets by day - my 5*accommodation for the evening. |
In my google streetview reccie I’d noticed the public toilets at Llanbedr, permanently closed for a time from what I could tell, and had scoured the (hugely entertaining) parish council minutes looking for updates on their fate. In the end I was none the wiser, and felt it was 50:50 whether they would be open. On reaching them and having stared uncomprehendingly at the Welsh words for Men and Women on the toilet outside wall I opted for what turned out to the women's side of the toilets. The sign said closed for the season, the door said otherwise, and 10 minutes later I was installed on sleep map, in two layers of foil bivi bag and the lightest weight sleeping bag I own. I glugged down half a litre of water, took a couple of paracetamol, put in some earplugs, set an alarm and settled down. I could hear the wind and rain outside and I congratulated myself on a double stroke of luck not only finding the toilets usable, but timing it to another passing burst of rain. I expected to be passed by much of the field while I slept but resisted the urge to worry about this one iota. I had a plan and was sticking to it.
Tom was no doubt intrigued by the foil wrapped creature he’d discovered on the floor of the ladies toilets and decided to shine his head torch right at it in an effort to classify it. I decided this was probably a sign that I ought to get myself moving - sooner than I’d have liked but I was awake now and unlikely to drift off again. I had a coffee drink thing I carried in from the Spa, and changed socks again as the repeated rain was wetting them through. I regretted not having a pair of waterproof socks with me (though had plenty in my drop bag!) and wondered why this never occurred to me as a good idea back in Criccieth.
Outside, the rain had stopped and it was freakily warm when not in the wind, and pretty nippy when in it. I set off in search of Tom and anyone else I could find. The long stretch to Barmouth really goes on a bit and is just a cycle way alongside the main road so wins no prizes for quality either. At some stage I spotted another runner dozing on a bench roadside but other than that saw not a soul. I had no idea where I was in the field.
On the outskirts of Barmouth I was surprised to see Byron hobbling towards me. He’d dnf’d with his sciatica and got a hotel room in Barmouth so he could see runners through. It was great to see him, and despite the mental wounds being still fresh he was remarkably positive about the experience and I was both impressed and pleased for him. Had the situation been reversed I fear I would have been hiding somewhere wallowing in self pity - so his fortitude was to be admired. He told me the other runner near me was Tom and went off to find him. Tom caught me up on the deserted streets of Barmouth and we crossed the bridge together just as the rain started up again. I ducked into the toilets at the far end of the bridge to use the facilities and Tom disappeared into the darkness.
From there to the checkpoint at Dolgellau is another 7 miles or so of off road track and again I remembered in 2017 I was already flagging with tiredness by this point. This year I was an hour behind my 2017 time but felt relatively fresh after my short sleep. Fingers crossed the sleep gamble was working out. But, rested or not, with sore feet I still wasn’t meeting the pace expectation I’d put in for the leg and my efforts to push faster were met with resistance. As a result I got into cp 4 at 8:25am, still 13 minutes better than plan, but now up to one hour and twenty minutes behind where I was in 2017. But, I’d had some sleep, and surely that would have to assist come the all important second night.
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| The inevitable on arrival shot |
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| Getting on with admin |
At Dolgellau I stripped off socks and shoes and was surprised to find my feet in poor shape with water immersion foot. I’ve met zombies with more attractive feet than I uncovered that morning and I was annoyed at myself again for allowing it to happen. (NB: subsequent diagnosis revealed that following a change of Hoka’s a couple of weeks before the race I’d not replaced the insoles with my preferred options and instead left the original Hoke insoles in - cheap and nasty sponge affairs that soak up and hold water, so my feet had spent many hours with wet sponges strapped to them). I wiped my feet down with antibacterial wipes, and liberally applied talc, then got on with other admin so they could air for as long as possible. I’d not given myself long to stop here in the plan but without working feet I was doomed so needed to take the time necessary. I applied fleecy web and tape to the pads of my feet to give some protection and cushioning and reapplied olive oil (my barrier layer of choice). Unlike 2017, when the cp space available was one room and it was full of retired racers, this year there was apparently a sleeping room (Mark getting soft in his old age - it’s official), the existence of which had not made the briefing notes! Anyone reading this in preparation for a 2021 race I’d suggest checking what will or won’t be available if you are wanting to rely upon it. Steve Braithwaite was at the cp, having dnf’d earlier after a 6 mile nav error! He was disappointed clearly but seemed at one with the decision and was busy planning his journey home. Luckily Mark has the foresight to require racers have “a DNF Plan” on the mandatory kit list, which many racers were able to avail themselves upon! I spent an hour in total getting my feet, and more generally my act together but given the 50 miles to the next major checkpoint are the hardest in the race it was worth the investment in a proper reset. Then it was hill o’clock and time to get moving.
The 15 miles to Machynlleth boasts 600+meters of climb and is just the first third of the fun of the day. After a steep warm up hill to get to and cross the A487 it's then a steady pull up again in what was very exposed conditions. The poncho was back on but as soon as I got out of the wind it was really warm again - then as soon as I was back in just a baselayer then there was a chill blast of wind and the rain started again. Bit of a pattern for that day or so as each rain front passed through quickly in the wind. Once over the summit of the second hill then it's a long steady valley trail for 10 miles all the way down to Machynlleth. My feet hurt. What should have been good stretch of nailed on solid running in the bag turned into a grumpy route march as my brain chose to do myself no favours at all in support of getting me from A to B in a sensible time. Averaging barely over 3 mph despite it being a solid 500 meters of decent, I grumbled my way into Machynlleth at 2pm now 70 minutes behind my plan.
I’d allowed myself 40 minutes here to get some proper food at one of the cafes along the high street, and I toyed briefly with the idea of instead grabbing something quick from the co-op and pressing on. It would have been a good way of claiming back a bit of the deficit and keeping me closer to my planned timings. But with grumpy feet, a grumpy brain, and the rain starting up again the lure of a cafe proved too much and I decided to head inside and scare a few locals with my polythene coated serial killer look. The usual shenanigans ensued as I had to explain to the 200 year old waitress twice that both soups, both coffees and both cakes were just for me and “my friend” would not be joining me shortly. I was reminded of the brilliant Julie Walters sketch….
Julie Walter's The Waitress (aka Two Soups) sketch
(Can't find the thing on youtube to properly imbed here but ^ that's the one I mean. Comedy gold reprised live in Machynlleth)
Simply brilliant as I was there living it live, with the clock ticking. It was such a ridiculous scenario I could only laugh and my mood was restored. In the end, after the poor waitress returning to the kitchen several times at glacial speed, I finally got myself on the outside of my meal and back out the door. The whole sitcom had miraculously only taken 30 minutes so I was fed and watered, laughing inside and out, and still clawed 10 minute back towards plan. In my own little world and with a full tummy I walked straight past the Co-op without stopping and headed out of the village and up The Hill.
From Machynlleth it's a solid 500 meters of climb for 7+ miles up to the highpoint of the Lon Las route. There’s a viewpoint up there apparently, but not one I’ve benefited from on either occasion. The bands of alternating rain and sun continued as I climbed and I was treated to an amazing double rainbow, that on the other side of the hill Peter managed to capture (you had to be there!).
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| Nothing says "Welcome" like a Cockbain checkpoint |
I left the checkpoint, losing height as I went but very exposed to the wind and rain. I decided I needed get extra insulation and my head torch on and looked for some shelter to facilitate this. None was forthcoming. Not even a hedge. I was on a winding featureless road through open featureless moorland. I saw a village ahead and got unhealthily giddy about the prospect of a phone box or a bus shelter, though my plan was then scuppered as the road bypassed the centre of the village and even the seductive charms of a phone box weren’t enough to make me venture 300 meters off course. I pressed on. The light continued to fade and shelter continued to be shy. I was about to go for it regardless, when in the gloomy distance a single light appeared that looked to be just off the road. As I drew closer, I saw a sign for a bunk barn and sure enough I could see room lights and people. It was mightily tempting. In my head I imagined there was a roaring fire, comradery, music, laughter, and probably mulled wine. On the opposite side of the road was another small building, all in darkness but with a handy covered veranda. I skulked across the grass to it and sorted myself out. Layered up and head torch on I went to go refill my food stores only to realise that I had next to nothing with me. Arrgghhhh - stupid. On my race instruction sheet - laminated of course - Past Karl had clearly instructed Machynlleth Karl to stop at the Co-op and buy food. Now Future Middle of Nowhere Karl got quite vocally dissatisfied with Machynlleth Karl about doing such a stupid thing. It wasn’t a life or death problem but all the Karls had well over 20 miles to do on a single flapjack. Any my original plan had me dropping in at the pub at Llangurig for coke and peanuts and given how behind schedule I was that wasn’t going to happen either.
Into Hafren forest I went. It was dark, it was windy, it was raining, it was not pleasant. After what seemed like hours of forest trail with only my head torch light for company I got visited by aliens. The trees around me started to light up for no apparent reason; the rain, passing horizontally from left to right at the time started to light up for no apparent reason, then the alien craft arrived. It was huge, wheels larger than me, a bank of floodlights along the top and down both sides that created its own bubble of daylight 50 meters across, and four amber flashing lights on top added for good measure. The aliens were clearly as surprised to see me as I was them and their planetary explorer vehicle slowed to a crawl as they approached. I wondered if first contact was coming but clearly they had other plans and as soon they drew level they accelerated again, the light show faded, and the close encounter was over.
Leaving the forest (and the aliens) behind I picked up a river on my right. I couldn’t see it in the darkness of the valley but I could certainly hear it. A huge constant roar of fast flowing water was my companion for a few miles (and only now, while writing this up do I learn it was the adolescent River Severn, only a few miles from its source, and making swift progress on it's way to the Bristol Channel - O Level Geography why have you forsaken me?).
The food situation was not good. I’d rationed the flapjack into 6 mouthfuls to be eaten at three mile intervals. Chew your food slowly Shields. In between I added in a not to be quickly repeated combo of two squirts of olive oil (from the little plastic pot I carry with me to use as a barrier layer for my feet) and an extra strong mint to cover the taste of the oil. Calories are calories, but it wasn’t a taste sensation. I toyed with the idea of eating my emergency food - a couple of bars in my pack required as part of the mandatory kit. But I wasn’t sure on Marks policy on emergency food so decided against it. Lakeland 100 for example makes it pretty clear that if you resort to using your emergency kit then you didn’t carry enough kit for normal use and your race should be over. I couldn’t see Mark taking that line but neither did I fancy testing this premise and getting myself disqualified at the next cp when I was already 150 miles into the race. So the emergency food, tempting as it was, stayed put.
Not far from Llangurig tiredness caught up with me and I realised I was starting to lose focus and pace as I bounced into and out of sleep. I started looking for places to get 15 minutes and perchanced across the ultra runners equivalent of the Ritz. One of the roadside farms had a number of open workshops and one of them, dry and sheltered, also had a number of large flattened cardboard boxes stacked against a wall. I laid two flat on the floor, and put two over me and set a countdown alarm for 15 minutes. Fourteen seconds later I was awoken from a deep sleep by my alarm. I’d stupidly set the countdown for 15 seconds instead of minutes but still had chance to get soundly asleep before it went off. Set again properly I got a good 15 minute power nap in and felt much better.
In Llangurig the pub had been a welcome oasis in 2017 but now, just shy of midnight, memories were the only sustenance I could take from the darkened pub. I was now 2 hours 15 minutes behind 2017, and 3 hours behind my 2019 plan. Pah. The only positive (other than I was relatively mobile and still in the race) was that last time around the next leg was dreadful, barely averaging over 2mph, and I wasn’t anywhere near as sleep deprived this year so I had high hopes to claw a bit back. The 10 miles to the checkpoint wind along a valley and have precisely zero redeeming features. One or two farms along the way but otherwise nothing to occupy an increasingly tired and petulant brain. At least it had stopped raining for a bit.
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| "It's a Mr Death or something… he's come about the reaping" |
At 3:45am I passed through the silent checkpoint door in search of intelligent life, or at least my drop bag, some much needed food, and some sleep. I’d made no discernible indentation on the deficit on my race plan but at least it was no worse and I’d scheduled a whopping 5 hours of down time here just in case. I was at 150 miles, and I knew from previous experience that the hardest part of the race was behind me. 100 miles to Cardiff is not to be taken lightly but Lon Las (IMO) is about getting to Rhayader, and then leaving it. The rest is metaphorically and for many miles literally, downhill.
As if by magic, Karen appeared, and suggested I get my wet things on the radiators to dry. I pointed out that other than my feet, my wet things were not wet courtesy of the high tech 25p poncho I’d come in wearing. My feet made up for the rest of me though, and were now an even worse mess than before but that was a problem for later, so for now I wiped them down and left them uncovered to air and dry out. Gary spotted me from his sleeping bag and came over to check in. He’d fallen behind the curve and having got himself to the halfway point judged that he wasn't going to be able to make Cardiff by the cut off. It's a tough call to make but it's so hard to put yourself through the hell of the latter stages of a long race when your chances of making it in time dwindle away and eat at your mojo. I rammed down some food and water, cocooned myself in primaloft and settled down with my feet up for some sleep.
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| Drowning my sorrows after being unimpressed with my feet |
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| A good night's sleep, ultra fashion |
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| Maxine working her tapey witchcraftiness |
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| More faffing and internal debating |
My mojo had well and truly left the building and I wrangled with indecision in my head, simultaneously searching for reasons to continue and reasons to stop. I even heard myself utter out loud that I didn’t want it enough - and didn’t have anything to prove. You muppet. That was enough to give myself the mental kicking I needed, and besides, Maxine had done a great job on my feet and it would be rude to put her efforts to waste now. I went outside and did a test jog around the carpark. Not what one would call a comfortable ride but I was sure that as the nerves numbed off I’d be fine. Stop being an idiot Shields and get this thing finished. My resolve had been tested and thankfully was not found wanting.
After checking in with Alan Cormack, still soldiering on with feet that looked remarkably like my own, I was out the door. Time to claw back some time. I left at 8:35am (2.5 hours behind my 2017 time), destination Newbridge, its general store, and their locally sourced pork pie slices. Having got through what surely was my emotional lowpoint, a finish was looking much more likely, but a PB time was still pretty much in doubt. I had some work to do.
Once I warmed up and my feet numbed off I ran anything not uphill and averaged 4.5mph for the leg. Yes! I’d clawed back 10 minutes on 2017, so made it a quick stop at the store and ate and walked my way out. Next stop, Builth Wells, is pleasant little market town with a good array of shops and more importantly cafes - just 7 miles away and a perfect lunch stop. I kept pushing and clocked 4mph average over the leg, getting in a 1pm and with another 10 minutes trimmed off the deficit. I still had a lot to make up but there was still 86 miles to go so it was hardly a done deal. In Builth I selected a cafe without a geriatric waitress. Yes, two burgers please, yes, they are both for me, yes, really, yes, Cardiff, yes, really, yes since Thursday morning, yes, it is indeed a long way.
The weather was good now, the sun was shining but it wasn’t baking hot. Frankly some good visibility was a bonus as the next leg is (IMO) by far the most deadly on the whole route if you are on foot (not that it would be much better on a bike). After a brown trousers quarter mile pressed against the crash barrier of the A481, I commenced the death defying 6 mile journey up the B4567 to the 175 mile water stop at Elwood Station. The road is fast with many tight bends and locals, and especially motorbikes, treat it as a race track. Add in some localised flooding and nowhere at all to get off the road and it's all a bit hair raising. A farmer with sheep trailer on tow must have took a blind hill at 70 and (with his front wheels seemingly off the ground) saw me attempting to bury myself in a hedge - I swear I was close enough to count the sheep in the trailer as they passed within a whisker of me. A motorbike fully leaning into a bend passed so close I could feel the wind off his helmet - the only satisfaction being his face in said helmet looked even more terrified than I did. I was seriously relieved to leave the road and join the disused railway line at Elwood Station.
I mixed up and drank a Huel, filled my water bottles, and stretched out on a bench for 5 minutes to reflect on the fact that I was still alive and wasn’t a bloody smear on a motorbike helmet. Composure regained I headed off again - there was much to do still between here and the final checkpoint.
On pleasant quiet tracks and roads I made good progress as the trail moves along the Wye Valley towards the bridge at Glasbury - home of the petrol station shop, and local baked goods. It even has a public loo. After making use of the facilities I arrived at the shop at Glasbury at 5:50pm and made a beeline for the Costa express machine. I was feeling freakily good and was going to get a boat load of calories in me to encourage the feeling to stay with me all the way to the next checkpoint. I was now 1.5 hours behind 2017 time but I also knew that by this time last race I’d been seriously flagging and dropping asleep on my feet whereas this time around I was buzzing. Pockets stuffed with carby-goodness and with fish and chips at Talgarth as my next target I was back on the move and rocketed up the hill.
Approaching Felindre I caught another racer, fell back again when I stopped to layer up and get my headtorch on, but then caught him again just 10 minutes later. He was walking but still going at a fair whack so I was pleased that my relative speed was so good. I had no idea where I was in the field of runners, but I was now one further forward than I was, so I wasn’t last! At Talgarth I decided a treat was in order and settled into the warmth of the pub, ordered chicken and chips, coke, orange juice and coffee and rebooted ahead of the up and over to Brecon. I’d arrived at 7:44pm, now just 70 minutes behind 2017 and continuing my trend of taking 10+ minutes back each leg. And I was still feeling good. I reflected on how easy a decision leaving the 150 mile cp at Rhayader would have been had I known then how I felt now. I also reflected on the fact that I knew this happened to me a lot - my rollercoaster emotional state can have an enormous impact on my positivity and performance - and yet I still choose to forget when wrestling with potential DNF demons. I should have just gotten myself out of that cp without all the angsting and silliness and seen what happened regardless. Still learning.
Out into the crisp night I started up the hill Llanfilo soon catching and overtaking my fellow racer again who’d opted for the quicker Co-op refuel option at Talgarth. Up ahead on the top of the creepy hill with the earthworks on I could see a head torch scanning. The night was clear and I imagined the owner (Tom as it later turned out) was enjoying the view from the top. It's a solid pull up the steepest parts of the hill but I was feeling good and was soon up and over and only the farm roads that wind endlessly along to the outskirts of Brecon. The sleep demons had clearly stopped for a pint or two at the pub as they still hadn’t caught me, though I glanced over my shoulder every now and again expecting to see their malevolent green eyes chasing me down.
At the A470 underpass I clearly disturbed someones late night activities as a car full of people, with headlights on and music blazing caught one look of my approaching high vis jacket and started up the engine and reversed out of the underpass and roared away. Through Brecon there were a fair few people leaving the pubs but once down to the canal path, with it's eerie mist rising from the canal itself, then I was alone once more. I thought I’d been making solid progress but Tom was clearly making equal or better as I’d seen no sign of him since his lighthouse impression at the top of the hill. Finally turning off the canal path I jogged out the last mile to the cp hoping (but just failing) to bring it in by midnight. I’d taken another 20 minutes off my deficit, now just 50 minutes behind, and while I continued to feel solid and my feet and ankle held up then the pb time was looking at least possible…. if not yet probable.
Peter was manning the cp, and as expected Tom was already there, though he didn’t look like he’d been there that long. I did a feet check, no worse, though my left ankle was badly swollen above my sock line. The taping was sound and I decided to leave it in place, wiped off the exposed skin with antibacterial wipes and left them open to the air. Food was eaten, and I settled in with my legs raised and 100 minutes on my phone’s countdown timer. An unknown amount of time later Tom’s alarm went off and kept going off as he kept on sleeping. Eventually Peter got fed up and went and turned it off for him; Tom slept on. 10 minutes later it went off again and Peter again turned it off - fair to say Tom was very tired if he could sleep through the alarm right by his head. I felt relatively rested and there wasn’t long left on my own alarm so I called it and got myself mobilised.
I had mixed feelings about the last hill to come - up and over the Brecon Beacons, the last major obstacle between me and Cardiff. In 2017 it had been truly awful, with visibility so bad I had to hold my head torch a foot off the ground just so I could keep track of the edge of the road. And I was so sleep deprived I floundered around for ages, putting in a 2.5mph average for the leg. This year was different - I felt better, the skies were clear, the forecast was good, and I still had yet to deploy my secret weapon. I left the cp at just after 3:30am, back to 70 minutes behind my 2017 time, BUT, feeling a different man to 2017 Karl. Last 50. Time to finish it.
As the road up to the reservoir dragged on I felt myself start to drift a bit, and decided some singing was in order. Previous use of loud singing to keep myself awake were of limited use due to, in addition to the obvious lack of any talent, no memory for any lyrics beyond a few odd lines. So this time I’d armed myself with a selection of printed lyrics - laminated of course - for a half dozen songs I can murder. Sounds of Silence was appropriate, as was Johnny Cash’s I Walk The Line. Slightly less appropriate was Fairytale in New York but I didn’t let that stop me. I formally apologise now for anyone in the farms and hamlets dotted along the way who made the mistake of leaving their bedroom window open, and got to experience the horror of me tunelessly banging out song lyrics over and over again to keep myself away. Sorry.
Pausing only to speak with Lindley and Maxine at the start of the forestry track, I ploughed on up the hill anxious to eat up some of the time deficit. I knew I wasn’t last now as I’d established at the last cp that Alan and Allan were still behind me. I didn’t really care where I placed otherwise, I just didn’t want to be last. The trail through the woods goes on and on and on, and more singing was deployed, though with reduced gusto as the weariness set in more and more. I finally emerged from the woods and topped out the hill, rendezvousing once again with Lindley and Maxine who had redeployed to see me through, before driving back to the reservoir wall to catch up with the A(l)lans. As the dawn of the final day arrived I was making good progress and spotted a high vis jacket ahead - had to be Tom or Stuart as the other two were well ahead. It turned out to be Stuart who was starting to suffer with his back and had a definite tilt going on. We shared a couple of mouthfuls of mocca from my flask which always has a magical healing property and I hoped it would work it's magic on him. Good downhill trails called for some running and after stripping off my overnight layers I got some stretches in at a good pace. 2017 I’d spent this stretch and miles to come hunkered in my layers unable to generate any real body heat but now I was in good form.
The next major milestone was the Mcdonalds at Merthyr and I was REALLY looking forward to it… a feeling only reserved for this race it seems as Macdonalds have no draw for me otherwise. I was already fantasising about my food choices. The outskirts of Merthyr, and indeed the inskirts as well are not inspiring but there were many runners and cyclists out for exercise in the early morning sun and it was good to be around people again. Unlike the country lanes where nav is easy, you have to have your wits about you in town centres. Also the cycle routes and walking routes can differ for traffic safety reasons which can lead you astray easily. Up ahead I saw Tom, then he was gone, then he turned up behind me have been led astray by a rogue sign. He was walking, and limping a little, and still in his waterproofs, but going at a good pace and in his trademark high spirits. Being vegan it was unlikely he’d be joining me at McDonalds and I wanted to press on running so we parted ways but I was sure I’d be seeing him again once he’d refueled and got warmed up.
Cutting off trail and across the car park to McDonalds I rolled in the door at just after 10am, and 30 minutes AHEAD of my 2017 time. Boom! I’d overhauled a deficit and done the leg from the checkpoint 1 hour 40 minutes quicker than last time. Time for a reward feast. Unlike other eateries along the way the server in McDonalds paid no heed at all to me ordering 2 of everything just for myself. Coffees, orange juices and two breakfast McSomething-or-other meal’s - large. I checked my timings and took stock of the situation. My arrival time had been 10:04am, compared with 10:30am in 2017 and my 2019 planned arrival of 10:14am. Back ahead of plan and a pb time was looking to be back on the table. 29 miles to go and just under 13 hours to do them in for the cutoff (a comfortable 2.3mph) or to beat my previous time 9 hours to do them in (a theoretically still comfortable 3.2mph). Apart from sore feet and a grapefruit sized left ankle I was ok. I left and headed across the carpark to where the enticing official cp 9 water stop was situated.
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| Mark really pulling out all the stops at the last checkpoint |
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| Me checking Karen's risk asssessments and training certificates are all up date. |
Now my thoughts were firmly on the finish. Well my throbbing ankle and the finish. I took more painkillers and pushed on trying to keep some good running sections in and ignoring the pain that seemed to be growing by the minute. Given I’d put 100+ miles on the ankle since it started to flare up I felt it was not good sportsmanship of it to not hang on until Cardiff. Then it could get as bad as it liked but for now I needed it to pull its weight in the team. After 9 miles of solid progress I was lured into the Navigation pub at Abercynon for a coke and to use the facilities. I rang Harriet for some assistance locating the trail closure and she got some intel from Lindley. While on the phone to her as she described the recommended detour I arrived at the detour having inevitably gone too far along. The detour was simple though, just back onto a noisy A road, before rejoining the trail at Pontypridd londis, another essential sugar acquisition point.
From there to Tongwynlais there is little to get excited about but the first 5 miles or so is actually uphill again and I laboured along, my ankle making its dissatisfaction known. A voice called my name and I was delighted to see Byron again who'd come out to see me through and loiter for Alan whose pace was borderline to see him to the finish. It was great to see a friendly face and see him so positive about his experience.
I pushed on and as soon as I crossed the M4 motorway I could taste the finish. From there it's just 8 miles to go and almost all of it is alongside the Taff on pleasant trails and through parks. It was 4:30pm and to pb that meant I had 2.5 hours to do it in which was… still 3.2mph. I knew I had a few stops but I was also pretty sure from the Mcdonalds at Merthyr I’d done a better average than 3.2mph. But the numbers didn’t lie, I was a lot closer but not making any inroads on the average speed needed to come in the right side of my pb time. In truth my “running” was a broken shuffle, and my walking was barely 3mph. I set myself a target of an hours “running” without stopping. The path was easy going and it was all downhill from her so it was just a matter of mind over ankle pain and tiredness. To assist, the parks were full of people out for afternoon runs and rides and I wondered what they must think of the broken high vis clad figure shuffling along beside them on the warm afternoon.
Yes, one hour done, 4 miles covered, 4 miles to go and I’d wrested the pb average speed requirement under 3mph. No way I was letting this slip now. I took a sharp ninety degree right onto a footbridge over the Taff, my ankle spasmed in pain, and I let out an involuntary yelp. I paused on the bridge leaning heavily on the handrail, half to admire the view, half to let the pain subside. Hardened endurance athlete that I am I then I burst into uncontrollable tears. A mixture of tiredness, pain and happy/sad emotions caught up in a wave that I couldn’t control and I made a fool of myself for a minute, attracting the attention of a passing lady who must have been concerned I was about to throw myself off the bridge.
Composure regained(ish) there was nothing now but to finish it. I was looking forward to seeing my son Tom and my mother who had both said they would be there. Tom met me last time as well and even though I was knackered we’d enjoyed a meal out that evening. Tonight was going to be the same regardless, I was determined. The last circuit of the bay seemed shorter than before - but conversely I still I didn’t seem to be any closer and the clock was ticking. I pushed harder and harder fighting the pain in my ankle that had now ceased all pretence at being part of the team and was in full on dissent. As I weaved through the milling crowds in the pedestrianised area lost in a world of pain and wondering how the heck it looked so different to last year a little voice cried out “do you know where you are going?” Too deep a question for my brain to deal with but I was thankful for my mother guiding me in for the last hundred meters. Last time I’d had a sprint finish in me, this time I had nothing left. I entered the ring with a groan of emotion, fighting back more tears. Finish time 83:35, placing 3rd out of just 4 finishers, and I took 10 minutes off my pb.
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| Relief incarnate.... |
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| ...and looking truely awful. |
I found it harder this time around, even though I was fitter, and clearly had the experience of knowing the ins and outs of the race and the course. The ankle injury clearly didn’t help, but in 2017 I was only two weeks after Offa’s Dyke and I think that trail fitness was a factor - I simply hadn’t done the expedition grade miles this time to hardened myself up. The weather was wetter in 2017, but this time it was more varied and personally I find alternating periods of heavy rain, then warm sun more problematic than if it just rains all the time. And mentally this year I was weak - I lacked that real hunger for a finish you need to keep you going through the bad bits. As a result I came as close to packing it in as I think I ever have on a race. So in the end it took more of me to force myself through to Cardiff - but I did it, clocked a second finish, and it was all the sweeter for being harder. I love both my dragon medals equally of course, but secretly I love this years just a tinsy bit more!
Big thanks as ever to Mark and the whole crew. Very hands off, as is the brand of the race, but always there when you need them, and there was so few of them they hard to work harder than the racers did. All photo credits go to them as well. Thanks guys.
And finally, anyone reading this toying with the idea of a 2021 entry, don’t hesitate, it's a brilliant and challenging race, but do not underestimate it…. Mark likes his races to bite back hard and this one has big teeth and breathes fire.
