Salvaging Seasons - The 2018 Garmin Mourne Skyline MTR

The last five minutes were undeniably the toughest, so close to the longed-for finish line but with legs threatening to seize again on the unforgiving fire-road surface. Waves of pure emotion rising like giant sobs, catching in my throat and being swallowed rapidly down, long-bottled frustration so close to release.  Oblivious to the ten-minute gap behind and executing a pre-planned kick down the road to the football pitch, reality finally dawned with the inflatable arch in sight and I accepted the fact that the race was mine.  Arms raised, fingers pointing to the sky, this one meant an awful lot.

Spoiler alert! Yes, I won in the end, no suspense here.  Photo Credit: Jayne Bell

October last year painted a very different picture as Team Garmin's Germain Grangier took the Mourne Skyline title and my course record along with it.  Being magnanimous in defeat is infinitely trickier when denied the solace of actually facing an opponent, injury just a fortnight before the race stealing the opportunity for an epic battle.  Knowing that I'd gone five minutes faster than the new record in recent training did nothing to soften the blow and slim consolation was garnered from the knowledge that there's always next year.

Fast-forward again to October 2017, weeks of preparation aimed towards hitting peak on this day, numerous injuries overcome and ambitious sessions logged.  A season of missed targets ramping the significance, and what should have been an end-of-season celebration morphed into a season-defining result.  I wanted my record back but the weather had other ideas, a forecast threatening lightning and gales, gradually relinquishing its power, leaving benign enough conditions but treacherously loose ground.  It would be a race for the win paying no heed to the watch.

A non-functioning alarm saw a panicked breakfast, hoovering a banana and peanut butter sandwich half an hour later than scheduled.  I can't eat within 150 minutes of a race but the Skyline is long and will make light work of an under-nourished athlete so I accept that the first thirty minutes of running will need a gentle approach for the sake of my stomach.  Final checks, grab my kit and head for Newcastle.  Smiles and chat at the kit check table but those on the near-side wear tense masks, everyone keenly aware that suffering is in store, regardless of pace.  Agonising over kit decisions I end up wearing one lightweight waterproof whilst carrying another, adhering to kit-lists but opting to avoid the sweat of more robust materials and parachute effect of hoods.  An almighty shower fills the last twenty minutes of anticipation, guaranteeing a soggy start and a portent of conditions to come.

Moody looking skies about to unleash

Easy pace along the seafront and very tentative up the Granite Steps, slight dizziness and concerns over breathing with the head-cold that has robbed me of energy and last-minute prep in the preceding week.  Cursing poor decisions, the race number on the shorts flicked open by swinging arm, necessitating a frustrating fifteen second fumble to re-attach the safety pin.  Consoled by a lack of record-breaking ambition, I re-join the lead and jog the short section to the ice-house trail.  The Donard ascent so familiar it requires no conscious thought, steps finding themselves and intermittent conversation filling the minutes as we approach the col, over the stile and cruising on...

Seamy Lynch attacks.  A notable stretching of the legs from my clubmate as soon as he crosses to the far side of the solid granite wall.  Caught in two minds I belatedly follow, more through a want of company than control of the race.  Catching on to the back of him I warn about overcooking, having sized up the opposition on the Donard ascent, it's very early days but already I know that the winner will be me or my friend and that question won't need addressing for a couple of hours.  Nevertheless, we stride on powerfully, enjoying the rare opportunity to cover distance at speed before hitting the peaks.  Next up, the unfeasibly steep and slippery Slieve Bearnagh climb is dispatched nonchalantly, satisfying to be leading out the field so effortlessly, but the descents are the concern today, numerous falls in recent forays on the course serving due warning over misplaced steps and over-exuberance.  As expected, the upper-slopes are free of traction, loose gravel and moisture-sheened rock.  Seamy falls but maintains motion, fluid and rhythmic, a class act altogether, whilst I gradually lose touch, my movements more reserved, survival over speed.  Annoyingly, the only minor slide sees ankle catch rock, right on the bone and that instant warmth that signals flowing blood.  Concern and self-admonishment, it hurts like hell, a nauseating burn, but experience says it'll wear off in time and pressing on is the only option.

Right on the bone, just where it hurts!

Exiting the col onto the jagged climb of Slieve Meelmore, Seamus hesitates rather than pressing home the advantage gained coming off Bearnagh.  I smile, his hand revealed slightly, maybe he's not ready to push on solo yet or maybe the doubts over limited mountain miles in recent years?  Either way, we resume conversation whilst running to the summit tower, 'dipping' the checkpoint and pressing on down Happy Valley.  More uncertain terrain, more deep sludge, the leg-sapping continuing even on the downs and an excess of concentration required just to stay rubber-side down.  Lynch falls again but gradually pushes the downhill pace once more, crossing stile and stream a handful of seconds ahead.

Seamy Lynch leading it out on the way to second place.  Photo Credit: Ian Corless

Fofanny Dam feed station is supposedly the half-way point.  Grabbing some barely desired sustenance we hit the mile-long road climb in OK spirits, happy in the knowledge that minimal energy has been burned to this point.  In distance terms we may be nearly 50% done but the hard miles all lay ahead and half a litre of caffeine rich electrolytes will kick start the real race legs.  From here it's about running a consistent pace, short strides and rapid cadence, brain disengaged and the first genuinely strenuous efforts.  The sixth-sense notes that Seamus is no longer on my shoulder, only my own breath audible and no second squelch echoing my footsteps.  He may be fading but he certainly won't blow, a tenacious mindset will keep him hanging on and so pacing remains key, it's not the kind of race where a winning burst is required.  I later learned that he stopped for a piss; I'd have held it in myself!

Over Meelbeg and the caffeine has definitely got the synapses firing, eyes brighter and a spring in the step, friendly exchanges with Justin Maxwell and the marshals on Meelmore and an embarrassing slip into the grime.  For the first time I'm feeling in command, aware of an increasing gap behind despite carefully regulated movement; perhaps spurred on I descend Meelmore's technical rock gardens light on the toes, more risks and yet some genuine enjoyment, racing can't all be serious.

Starting to enjoy myself.  Photo Credit: No Limits

The steep but short side of Bearnagh, hands and knees clawing at heather whilst rubber knobbles strain for grip on the pebble-dashed surface.  An exceedingly rare glance back sees the lead at around a hundred metres, mere seconds for Usain but a lifetime on thirty degree scree.  This is my terrain, legs like pistons and hands pushing hard on knees with every stride.  This isn't just walking, it's an all-body drive for upward momentum and deliberate attack here can be worth minutes.  Cresting the summit, gel squeezed into throat, the sickly-sweet gumminess immediately counteracted by the delightful bitterness of a salt tablet, why does racing necessitate such disgusting re-fuelling?  The wind is picking up as anticipated, blustery gusts swirling, tricky to anticipate, leaning gently into the invisible crutch, waiting for it to suddenly disappear.  A definite sense of relief at departing the lower slopes, the last of the real rough downhill over and an oh-so-familiar run in to the finish.

The final ridge consists of four peaks, ranked numerous times in my head according to difficulty, the first steep and then draggy, much like the third, and the second a mere blip, blink and you'll miss it.  The final hurdle is Slieve Commedagh, steep and unforgiving from this direction but the jumble of decaying man-made steps dispatch you rapidly to the summit tower.  I out-ran Seamus in a sprint race here a few weeks back, a surprising result at the renewal of an old rivalry, but today the pace is sluggish, the heavy drag of thousands of bogged-down steps finally taking their toll.  Mind-control is key here, drawing motivation thinking about my wee lads and their beaming pride if I win, but not becoming overwhelmed by thoughts of the finish, there's plenty can go wrong yet.

Coming home alone on the tortuous final ridge.  Photo Credit: Ian Corless

Commedagh summit is un-manned, looking unusually barren in the worsening clag.  No place to hesitate, dropping wearily down the double descent to the smiling faces at the col and pressing on up the day's ultimate climb.  The king of the Mournes, Slieve Donard is a drag, more power-walking and a tedious internal monologue driving me on, step by step, minute by minute.  Visibility now seriously hindered, I'm almost on the top before seeing it.  Four more ascending paces over the rain-greased stile and it's all downhill from here.

Nothing is ever easy.  Pace has been regulated throughout, sustenance enforced religiously, nothing flash in a performance notable in its tedium and yet cramp still makes an unwelcome enquiry, knocking on the door of my stabilising muscles, threatening total lockout.  A calm head is essential, alter the stride, slow the pace and no jerky movements, every tiny slip sending jerks of pain from confused and fatigued nerves.  Gradually it dissipates but the remainder of the descent will be on tenterhooks, keeping a frazzled brain busy, contemplating the cruelty of potential defeat grasped from the jaws of victory.  Hitting the fire road, for the first time I'm curious about the time, undoubtedly slow but nevertheless interesting enough for a glance at a watch face that tells me it's 6pm on the 1st January 2000, even the watch battery has had enough today.

No glorious sprint in with no chance of records and so a casual approach to the finish allows a mental decompression prior to the line.  A couple of involuntary shouts and some general fist waving before breaking the tape, hands on head in relief and then bent double with the exertion.  Happiness and relief, although unsure as to which is more prominent at this point.  Body and brain emptied beyond healthy limits, there will undoubtedly be repercussions for both in the coming days but for now enjoy the moment, savour the win and the satisfying end to a supposedly indifferent season.

Happiness and relief in equal measure

The time, 3:57:18 is surprisingly acceptable given underfoot conditions, enough to win by ten minutes but nearly eight minutes off record pace and fourteen off PB for the course.  Just goes to show how arbitrary mountain records are really when so dependent on so many factors, doesn't make them any less desirable though!  Further consideration of the stats, 22 miles, near 3,400m of ascent/descent and rhythm-destroying, foot-sapping surfaces throughout adds context.  It's a satisfying physical performance that's near impossible to explain to the uninitiated, most take that time just to do Donard once!

Me, Seamus and Ryan Stewart, men's top three.  Photo Credit: Jayne Bell

Huge, really genuinely huge thanks to all the organisers and particularly the marshals who once again made this the top class event that it is, standing on the mountainside long after I was stood in the pub with Guinness in hand.  Ryan, Justin, Ricky, Ian Corless, all the ladies with the delicious soup, Jonny and the course markers, basically anyone who gave up the time to help out.  You're all what make this sport so great.  Also, massive respect to all those who ran, congrats to Seamy who kept hold of second place, Shettleston Harrier's Ryan Stewart in third and also David and Colm who ran brilliantly for fourth and fifth for a Newcastle AC show of dominance like the old days!  Also have to mention Shileen O'Kane who won the tightest battle of the day, edging out Dark Peak's Megan Wilson to take the win and twelfth overall, superb running!  People ask how we can run that course in four hours but I always counter by pointing out that it's easy when you know you'll be back before lunch.  I reckon it's tougher being out there for eight, particularly when the weather turned biblical about two pm, ripping the hillside apart with gale-force winds and sheet rain.  We all deserve a pat on the back!  Onwards and upwards now towards hopefully a productive off-season.  Looking back, I was actually unbeaten in Ireland this year, just a shame that I only managed three races!  Better luck next year.