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.

Graphic Scenes of Suffering - The Maurice Mullins Wicklow Way Ultra

Feb 1^st 2016 – The physio removed the needle from my calf and a flood of relief spread from the twitching muscle.  The dry needling was uncomfortable and left me feeling bruised and tender but I was happy to try any method that may get me running again.  He delivered the verdict pragmatically but it felt like the executioner taking a swing.  I should put thoughts of running a mountain Ultramarathon in eight weeks time firmly out of my head and just focus on recovery.

March 26^th 2016 – I skip from foot to foot and look around at two hundred other athletes afflicted with the same masochistic tendencies as myself.  The driving rain and biting wind bring goosebumps to my forearms and I note that I’m the only person here not wearing a waterproof jacket.  In these conditions I figure it wouldn’t keep me any drier after ten minutes and I hope to warm up at some point on the mountain.  Race rules read, a short speech and we’re off.  How the hell did I end up here?

The Maurice Mullins Wicklow Way Ultra would never have been on my radar a year ago.  As a short course mountain running specialist my races rarely touch ten miles, making up what they lack in distance with brutal gradients and technical underfoot conditions.  Late last season I discovered a certain aptitude for stretching my legs a bit further, culminating with a big win at the final round of the prestigious UK Skyrunner series in October.  Duly inspired by my enjoyment of initial forays into the longer stuff I set about planning a change in direction for the 2016 season.  A combination of seeking new challenges as well as a desire to represent Internationally led me towards the Irish trials for the World Long Distance Champs and the World Mountain Ultra Champs.  Ultimately, that led me to that freezing windblown mountainside in late March.

Back to November 2015 and a wholesale change in distance had required a corresponding adjustment in training technique, so I set about acclimatising my muscles and joints to longer term pounding as opposed to super steep and high intensity.  Initially my legs responded really well and importantly so did my mindset with an average training run comfortably doubling in length almost overnight to a quick 16 miler.  I figured that rather than trying to become a plodder I’d instead be better off maintaining my leg speed and trying to extend the distance I could hold that pace and hopefully push up towards the required 32 miles.  Pre-Christmas this saw me advancing to some very hilly sub 2hr 50 twenty four milers and my confidence was high that I’d be able to get my 32 mile time to somewhere around the 3hr 50 mark by March.  Then in the New Year disaster struck…

I felt no different as I ran on into the second lap of my standard eight mile loop.  Legs were going smoothly and pacing was steady.  As I hit the slope at mile nine, out of nowhere both calves locked simultaneously and painfully.  The sensible option would’ve been to stretch off, walk back and get some rest in, so naturally I carried on and finished the session with a deep and spreading tension tearing my calves apart.  Equally stupidly I did what most runners do and after a mere day of rest headed out to ‘test’ the injury with a tough tempo session.  Unsurprisingly the legs locked again, this time after only two gentle miles and for the first time in my short running career I was faced with an injury that I couldn’t just man-up and run through.

What followed was near two months of mixed frustration, enjoyment and farce.  The frustration largely emanated from the total lack of improvement despite nearly two months of non-running rest.  Living with an uninterrupted view of the mountains transformed from the usual joy to a simmering resentment.  The satisfaction of knowing that I could be up amongst those peaks at will replaced by a debilitating depression at the realisation I couldn’t even walk up them.  I felt that their presence was mocking me, exacerbated on the rare sunny days where not enjoying their views and freedom seemed like a crime.  This frustration was tempered by a refreshing shift back to constant bike riding, the time freed up by non-running allowing a mix of structured turbo training and thrashing round the woods in the rain.  Mentally this was fantastic, really refreshing with the added bonus of re-finding my bike speed and actually bringing some tangible improvements in top end anaerobic performance.  I’d have probably been happy to settle for continuing the run free existence were it not for a nagging feeling that part of my identity had been removed.  The mountain running scene is full of incredibly friendly, humble, talented individuals and being a part of that has brought me a real sense of belonging since I stumbled into it a few years back.  Whilst not being a runner doesn’t mean being instantly banished, it does rob you of those shared experiences upon which the camaraderie is based.  I wasn’t prepared to walk away from that yet.  Likewise, there’s a belligerence to my mindset and if I’ve decided to do something then by sheer force of will it generally happens.  If that means exhausting all avenues in order to achieve my aims then so be it.  And so it was that seven weeks, four physios, massages, stretches, needles, weights regimes, foam rolling and research later I finally found the farcical solution to the ailment myself.  To give due credit to all the physios, they had diagnosed the problem but been deflected by the assertion that I hadn’t changed my shoes recently, and I hadn’t.  What I previously failed to realise though was that the intensity of my new regime had internally collapsed the heels in a three month old pair of Inov8’s so whilst they looked visually perfect they were essentially wrecked.  The additional heel drop had put too much strain on my calves for them to cope.  Diagnosis made, shoes changed and remarkably within a week I completed my first three hour run, celebrating my return with a favourite route along all the peaks of the famous Mourne skyline.

The Culprits

Depending on viewpoint the timing couldn’t have been worse/better.  Four weeks is hardly textbook prep time for the longest race of your career, however it was theoretically long enough to squeeze in a mini-periodisation of three increasingly hard weeks followed by a one week taper.  That was enough incentive for me and so it was that I somehow went from unable to run a mile to a sub four hour trail 32 miler in less than twenty days.  I also managed to squeeze in a new PB on my eight mile testpiece route and even a fantastic but freezing bike recce of the Wicklow Way course itself.  I can’t say that confidence was high, I was painfully aware of how fragile my physical conditioning was, largely built on foundations of sand. Having seen the course I also realised how little it suited my attributes.  Despite containing 2,000 metres of climbing, unfortunately none of it was steep enough for my strengths to kick in.  I feel my body noticeably settle into a rhythm once hills get super steep, something clicks and I find the going easier, not harder.  The flipside of this is that until that gradient is reached I often suffer and despise gradual ups and downs.  I knew I’d be fighting for rhythm throughout the race, a thought that brought trepidation. 

My taper week was as hateful as ever, every little tweak over-analysed and a creeping sense of dread culminating in my calf symptoms returning at the last minute and me being unsure whether I’d complete the course, let alone be competitive.  I’ve learnt to largely ignore all these feelings, form is so often uncontrollable and it always amazes me that despite all the hard training, sensible diet and mental acclimatisation I still rarely know whether I’m going to cruise the course or die a death.

We rolled into the Wicklow mountains to be greeted by a constant sheet of rain.  Cloud hung low around the peaks with little indication of any rapid improvement.  I agonised over kit choice with waterproofs, gloves and buff all pulled out and then stuffed back in the bag.  Ultimately I stuck with wearing a short sleeve base layer with the obligatory jacket in my bum bag.  I’d rather suffer than overheat.  A chilly wait on the start line and a few friendly and knowing conversations and we were off.  I headed out alone, happy to try to find my pace along the road section unhindered by the distraction of others.  Dropping down across the river we turned onto the Wicklow Way trail that would be our companion for most of the following thirty miles.  The initial 3km climb went smoothly with easy effort punctuated with snippets of chat; it’s always nice to get to know the athletes who may be your companions for a few difficult hours.  A fight with a gel pack took me on to the Alpine style rocky descent that had been so much fun on the bike in glorious sunshine just a week previously.  I led the field on to the long forest road descent and that’s when the problems started.  I’d woken in the night with stomach pains but dismissed them as pre-race nerves and spent the early morning forcing down the requisite calories to undertake this epic.  Unfortunately they returned with a vengeance, a painful swirling and slopping feeling that was moving rapidly downwards.  I don’t want to be unnecessarily graphic about what followed but needless to say I lost the lead as I dived for cover in the bushes.  The last thing I wanted was to have to force a pace so early in the race but I felt the need to re-connect with the lead group and tuck in to recover.  Heading into Curtlestown Woods I re-joined them but looking around at their serene faces it was clear that I wasn’t as comfortable as my front-running mates.

We pressed on together towards Crone Woods with me listening but barely able to contribute to conversation, my stomach was already churning again and I was dreading forcing down more gels at my pre-decided point.  I was caught in a classic Catch 22, knowing I’d need the energy provided but very aware of the debilitating impact of further fuelling on my present condition.  Reasoning that the status quo was better than hitting the wall completely further down the line I literally sucked it up, the gooey gel hitting my stomach like a very unwelcome guest.

The fog denied us the breathtaking view over Powerscourt Waterfall and instead we were treated to the disappearing back of Tom Hogan’s Team Canada jacket (I presume a swappsie from a previous World Champs, when I started chatting to Tom on the first climb of the day I was expecting a Canadian accent!).  He made a strong move and gently opened a gap on myself, Eoin Lennon and Barry Hartnett, none of us wanting to commit to the chase at this still early stage.  Watching Tom slip and skate down the steep drop towards the base of Djouce mountain I was glad of my X-Talon’s heel grip as I actually held back to ensure I’d have someone to shield me from the powerful wind on the open mountain.  Just a week ago I’d ridden up this section on bone dry trails, giving cheery advice to some out-of-their-depth Americans who’d overstretched themselves in a doomed attempt to summit Djouce.  This time it was me feeling pushed as Eoin decided to force the pace over the ridge and on to the boardwalk.  The punishing sidewinds toyed with us, daring me to lean into them to stay upright before abruptly ceasing, removing their invisible crutch and leaving me swerving and staggering to stay on the wooden sleepers.  Eoin was really motoring and so skipping round Barry I stuck to his back, drafting along at an alarming pace.  We picked off Tom on the steep exit from the boardwalk, his road shoes grossly deficient on the saturated ground, and rapidly opened a hundred metre gap.  As we hit the Ballinastoe Woods track Eoin apologised for the effort, explaining that he wanted to reel in Tom before exiting the rough stuff.  I felt that he wanted to work together, extending our advantage and under normal circumstances I’d have definitely concurred.  Unfortunately my digestive system had other ideas and I had to agonisingly watch Eoin and then Tom disappear again whilst I hid in the dense trees.

Briefly re-joined at the half way feed station I unfortunately couldn’t quite liberate my feed bottles fast enough to leave with the lead pair and so the metaphorical elastic stretched and then snapped as I watched them gradually ease away on the extended climb back where we’d just come from.  As an out and back route, the following half hour should’ve been a spirit lifting series of exchanges with friends warming up for the 26km Trail race as well as the outgoing Ultra runners.  I certainly saw many friends and appreciated their encouragement but was barely able to respond beyond a slack-jawed thanks and a raised thumb.  My quads were struggling to acclimatise to climbing again and the forced speed of the descent had sapped me beyond expectation.  The mental anguish of feeling this rough at merely the half way point weighed heavy and I’m sure I cut a dejected figure as I sluggishly retraced my steps over Djouce.

Photo Credit: Mick Hanney

A sliding, windmilling sprint back down the river that used to be a trail off Djouce mountain brought possibly my only enjoyment of the whole race, the familiarity of uneven ground and soft bog allowing a mental relaxation and rare freedom in my movement.  This was reflected in speed as the gap closed to around 50 metres on the steep rise back to trail running above Powerscourt, the grinning faces of groups of kids sat on the wall at the top juxtaposing dramatically against my pain-etched features.  Initial tickly shots of pre-cramp in my calves were allayed by some fluids and a salt sachet but the stomach issues weren’t so easy to defeat and another frustrating minute lost put the final nail in the coffin to any aspirations of re-joining the lead pair.

From that point onwards it was a lonely exercise in pacing, passing only a couple of the 08:30 starters to reassure me that I was still moving sufficiently fast.  Inexperience may have hindered me in this instance as I treaded a conservative line, preferring to reserve energy rather than push on and risk blowing up.  Ultimately I lost a few minutes as Tom and Eoin fought eachother for the win but the legginess I felt on the final road section convinced me that I hadn’t held back too excessively.

Initial emotions on crossing the line were relief tinged with disappointment.  My time of 4:08:55 (don’t believe the official results) would usually have been fast enough for a win but in reality it was considerably slower than I’d hoped.  I set myself high standards and Jonny Steede’s 3:56:47 record was always the target.  Perhaps I was being unrealistic given my lack of experience at this distance combined with the unorthodox preparation.  Problems on the day definitely cost me a static few minutes and maybe a few more as a result of the energy sapping nature of my ailments.  The clock doesn’t lie though and who knows what issues Jonny may have faced whilst setting his blistering pace?  The other key fact is that Tom and Eoin battled the same elements and came out faster.  A race that long will definitely reveal the rightful winner and the better athletes showed me up on the day.  Fair play lads, I’ll be back!

A badly stuck van (MASSIVE thanks to my Newcastle AC team mates for dragging us out despite the untimely sleet storm), a two hour drive to dissect the race and by 7pm I was safely back in County Down.  The redemptive powers of smiley kid’s faces, home-made carbonara and a roaring fire soon overcame any disappointment.  Time to relax, have a beer, wait for the DOMS and plan for my next race.

Huge thanks to IMRA for a great event, to the marshals who always have the toughest job and massive respect to all my fellow competitors.  The unifying qualities of shared suffering can never be underestimated and spending some time on the finish line meeting runners as they came in was really life affirming.  If ever you needed to explain why so many people gladly pay to go through that experience, just ten minutes spent there wordlessly encapsulates it all!

Reaching the Peak - 54 Minutes Of Flow

My legs feel relaxed as I drop out of the woods into the car park and on to the main street; the rhythm destroying transition from steep roots to flat asphalt not affecting me like in the previous three years. Hitting the seafront I involuntarily punch the air as drivers beep their approval and the gathered crowd clap and cheer.  Needlessly I hurdle a sign on the pavement before cruising through the finish line and releasing a guttural roar, pure emotion cascading out.  I'm not in control of my actions, the essential link between brain and body is somehow removed, a severing that took place sometime prior to the race and remained missing throughout.  I've smashed a course record that seemed previously untouchable and it felt painless, almost effortless.  I feel that I may have discovered the most elusive of sporting qualities, the concept of flow, and it feels incredible!

I have a love/love relationship with Slieve Donard, Northern Ireland's highest peak.  Rising 853 metres directly out of the striking coastline of Newcastle, County Down it has provided me with some of my most satisfying athletic achievements.  Last year I completed a 3hr 25min Donard Hat-Trick as an extreme training exercise in preparation for the World Running Champs in mountainous Colorado.  This year I completed a different kind of Donard hat-trick, winning Ireland's oldest and most prestigious mountain race for the third consecutive year.  It's the peak that initially inspired my interest in fell running when I read about the exploits of superhuman athletes who could somehow reach its distant summit and return in under an hour.  Now I can count myself amongst that elite group, a triumph of hard work and self belief over age and inexperience.

My first attempt at the Slieve Donard race was back in 2012, two years after Stevie Cunningham tore up the record books with a blistering 54:33 winning time.  I ran pretty well for a newcomer, finishing 7th in 1:00:46 but it was a result that brought more frustration than satisfaction.  Position mattered little to me as I never considered that I'd be a contender for honours but I badly wanted to break the hour.  The worst aspect of this was the knowledge that I'd be compelled to return the following year and go through the sheer agony of dragging myself over the steep and treacherous ground once again. So twelve months on I returned fitter, wiser and with better technique, aiming purely to knock 47 seconds off my time, thus allowing me to retire from competition happy in the knowledge that I could do 'the hour'.  That year saw a mini blizzard decimate the lead group high on the slopes and I found myself alone out front. The shock of winning took literally weeks to sink in.  My name was on the trophy with a 57:01 and some kind folk were even suggesting that I could've troubled the course record if conditions had been slightly less ridiculous for a mid-May day.

With that optimistic inspiration in mind I returned the following year with the sole goal of beating Cunningham's mark.  A weaker field left the result in little doubt.  I'd continued to improve rapidly in the sport and my closest rivals were away with the International squad so it was mainly the fast time that I sought.  I buried myself on the climb, summitting in 38:42 but my legs were hollowed out and I limped down, collapsing over the line incredibly in an identical 57:01.  I never considered it possible that I'd win the Slieve Donard race and be left disappointed but in truth I felt none of the buzz of my previous totally unexpected victory.  My ambitions had shifted and I'd fallen way short of the 55 minute times that characterised the wins of the top previous champions.

Apparently pushing the pace from the start!

And so to 2015 and an anticipated epic head to head with the most exciting prospect that Irish mountain running has seen in a long time.  My friend and occasional training partner Seamus Lynch has propelled himself to the top of the elite pile this year.  He's served his apprenticeship over previous seasons and pushed me to new levels in 2014 in my desperate attempts to keep ahead of him.  After a Winter that demonstrated both his improving speed and widening versatility, victorious in Cross Country races as well as 10k's, he's crushed everyone in the hills so far this season, winning everything that he's entered.  The knowledge that he's never beaten me on an open mountain race kept me confident but although the official pundits had us as joint favourites I knew that the majority fancied Lynch for the win.  My preparation generally went excellently and even a flare up of a stomach ulcer three weeks before the race allowed some enforced recovery time which ended up as a positive.  Nine days before Donard I achieved a long held ambition of taking the title on the brutal 'Binnian to the Top' race on a route that climbs a tortuous 2,000ft in just two miles.  It holds both special importance for me as venue for my first ever fell race and also special frustration after three consecutive second places! Following that success every session went as planned and I maintained firm self control to drop a few extra pounds to keep my weight to an absolute healthy minimum. With every quality session my self belief grew.  It's hard to explain but my psychological strength grows very gradually, day by day, with every strong training performance and every day of minimising unnecessary calorific intake. When asked by others I maintained my line that a sub-55 minute time was my only ambition but with a week to go I began to re-frame my objectives.  I could feel something special brewing.  As ever I visualised every inch of the race, playing out possible permutations in my mind.  What to do if I find myself behind, how to react if I'm alone out front, when to attack, what lines to take.  It sounds like overkill but these races are won as much in the mind as the legs.  A single thought kept returning to my mind and that was the commentary of race chief Joe McCann as I ran the home straight to win and then his shocked proclamation that I'd beaten the record.  This theme dominated my thoughts, a self-fulfilling prophecy?

Race day was simply perfect.  An early morning jog felt good with the pain of recent Plantar Fasciitis in my heel flaring less than expected.  My kids were really placid, minimising race day stress and as I drove to Newcastle I felt an excitement devoid of the usual nauseating nervousness.  I managed to secure the last parking place right next to the start area and was signed on and registered with ninety minutes to spare.  And that's when strange feelings started occurring.  With time to kill I went to visit my wife Anna at work for a chat and as I did I became aware of a total calm, all nerves dissipating and anticipation disappearing.  The best way to describe it is that time was no longer relevant. Instead of the usual longing for the event to be over so I could release the pent up tension, I felt that I wasn't even sure that the race hadn't happened already.  Reading that back sounds ridiculous but it was genuinely how it felt.  Most people have heard of being 'in the zone', a state of intense focus on a singular goal but this went beyond that to a state where the goal was no longer tangible.  I felt almost absent, out of body as we lined up and the whistle sounded.

Leading out towards the open mountain

I went easy down the road, legs moving without cerebral input and breathing barely registering.  It's only seeing the photos afterwards that I've realised that I opened up a lead on this section, shaping the fast end of the race into the kind of arrow you see when the pace is high.  The lower forested sections of the course are steep and heavily rooted but my feet found their way instinctively and I pressed on, still feeling remarkably comfortable and waiting to be passed allowing someone else to dictate the pace.  Crossing the river on to the open mountain I continued to move smoothly up to the famous 'black stairs' a rocky outcrop that runners pick their way through with varying degrees of caution or abandon.  It was at this ridiculously steep section that I noticed a gap opening back to Seamus, only a small one but on ground that wild in gradient even a few feet is enough to constitute a breakaway. Under normal circumstances I might've been tempted to accelerate and try to open a potentially race winning gap but my tactical mind was firmly overcome by the overwhelming calmness.  As I pushed on up the open moorland I maintained the rhythm, lacking both the usual muscular pain and also missing the common leader's sense of feeling hunted by the 200 hungry runners behind.  I never look behind me when I race, it serves no function but the temptation is often overwhelming.  On Saturday it seemed irrelevant, if Seamus was back on my shoulder I wasn't concerned and when I moved out right to gain better, more runnable ground I expected Seamy to appear on my left taking his usual aggressive direct lines.

The masses hit the Black Stairs

I topped out in exactly 37 minutes.  My previous fastest ascent was 36:45 on my return from the Worlds last year when I was benefitting from some time spent running at high altitude.  However, that time didn't include the two road minutes of the race route so by that reckoning I'd just done the climb in 35 minutes!  Between the Northerly summit cairn and the actual summit cairn is fairly flat and it's essential to sprint this section on the way up to maximise any gaps on chasers.  A friend on the summit has assured me that I looked in a fair degree of pain as I fought the vicious headwind and turned to descend but inside my head the calm remained.  A heavily folded ankle simply sprang back into place and I dropped my head and sprinted as I passed Seamus still finishing his upward journey. I could see that I had a gap but I know that Lynch is an incredible descender, just the right combination of nerve and technique and I knew that he'd be dropping like a man possessed, whittling away my lead.  As I passed numerous ascending runners I was aware of a strange sense of enjoyment that I've never experienced on that technical, ankle straining plummet before.  I was also aware of at least four people saying 'go on Seamus' to me, unsurprised to see a flash of red Newcastle AC running kit but not aware that it was hanging off my back and not his.

My pre-race visualisation had always included a mantra that stated if I was leading as I crossed the river then the race would be mine.  I'm so familiar with the bottom section and it seems to favour my slightly skinnier and shorter body as we weave through trees and jump through slippery rocks and roots at full speed.  The auto pilot continued to guide me off the final steep section, leaping the ditch and hitting the car park where this blog began.

Coming back from the mountain alone

The finish straight was met with an overwhelming euphoria.  Yes I pumped my fist in the air, yes I pointed at the crowds, yes I hurdled that sign and yes I screamed out loud as I crossed the line.  But no, none of those actions were planned or even conscious.  The disconnect remained, mind and body working harmoniously but independently.

I've been told I looked fresh at the finish.  I certainly felt fresh.  Adrenaline, endorphins, pure delight, who knows what was in control of my mental faculties, but physically I felt good for another lap.  I bounced from handshake to hug and was vaguely conscious of Joe McCann announcing the new record.  On the one hand it was a huge shock as all the way up I'd been telling myself I'd better start putting some effort in if I wanted a decent time.  On the other hand it was no shock at all, I'd already heard him announce it tens of times before in my head the week before the race.

Reading this back I'm aware that it could be seen as disrespectful, claiming that the biggest performance of my life was actually pretty effortless whilst others were burying themselves behind.  I haven't written this blog to boast.  I'm actually trying to find some kind of explanation for myself, if only so I can replicate that performance again someday.  Another bizarre happening in the run up to the race is that I couldn't get an image of Pete Bland out of my head from the photos in Richard Askwith's brilliant 'Feet In The Clouds' homage to all things fell running.  Bland is leaping in the air in total ecstacy after finally winning the Ambleside race in 1968.  He was quoted as saying 'it was like being in a dream - I had no pain'.  All I know is that I now understand what he meant.

Pete Bland after Ambleside 1968 (wearing kit borrowed off Barney Rubble?)

And so to the facts and figures.  I finished in 53:45, slicing 48 seconds off the previous 'modern day' record that involves the four minutes plus of road running to and from the mountain proper.  The previous record for 'just' the mountain was 50:30 held by Ian Holmes, a man sometimes described as 'the greatest fell runner of all time'.  My mountain time was definitely faster than that and I'd confidently, if totally speculatively go so far as to say that I may be the only person in history to run the mountain in less than 50 minutes.  Other genuine greats have also been surpassed including Irish athletic legend, World Championship medallist and all time Snowdon ascent record holder Robbie Bryson who's fastest win was 52:28 in 1999 and nine time Donard winner Deon McNeilly who's 1998 personal best stands at 55:08, neither including the road.

Let me state this in clear, unquestionable terms.  I'm not suggesting for one minute that my abilities are on par with those legends of the sport.  I've undoubtedly now made my mark but those men won all the big races in many record times that have stood for decades and may well stand for all time. What I have done is helped prove that there is a new generation of Mournes based runners who will hopefully be viewed in the same league as those few (and there are others I've not mentioned).  I've also moved my psychological goalposts and now believe that I can compete in the biggest races.  I dearly hope that I'll get one last run out for the NI squad at the Snowdon International race and I'll attack it without fear.  Likewise, with an entry for Ben Nevis and the World Masters taking place in North Wales I may well be looking for a blaze of glory end to my running career!

I've stated my desire to stop competing on numerous occasions.  The pressure I put on myself to achieve can be debilitating and effects my health, my mental state and those around me who have to put up with my moods and singular focus. Unfortunately I can't compete purely for enjoyment, and the quest for results sometimes hinders my appreciation of the pure joys of being able to get amongst the peaks at will, moving at speed and appreciating the connection between man and nature.  It's a sad affliction but one that I have to accept.  I just wonder whether having had a brief glimpse of that unique mental and physical state which I've best heard described as 'flow' will leave me happy to stop, content in the knowledge that I once reached that level or will it leave me forever chasing the unique set of circumstances that generated it in the first place.

Only time will tell but in the meantime I'm just enjoying these memories...

Achieving ambition. The Donard hat trick revisited

Back in 2012 I was looking for a new challenge.  I was enjoying a new lease of life in a new sport and realising that I had a bit of potential in mountain running.  I wanted something that was achievable but seriously challenging and so the Donard Hat Trick was born, boasting three full ascents and descents of Northern Ireland's highest mountain and giving a 15 mile route with 2550m of climbing and obviously the same amount of descending.  Tough in itself, but the real killer was that to complete the challenge I decided on a maximum 3.5 hours to do it!  If you read the link there you'll realise that not only did I never achieve it, I never even got round to attempting it!  I also failed spectacularly to convince any of the elite mountain runners I asked to give it a go either.  Consensus was that it was a bit too ambitious/mind numbing!

Don't get me wrong, I had a good stab at it but limited myself to double ascents culminating in a 2:19:26 (the 1:19 in the old blog is a typo!).  That theoretically put me on target but the reality was that I was almost unable to walk after the two times round and the thought of putting in a 1hr 10m third lap was laughable.  Two pretty successful years of running and racing later, quite unexpectedly the Donard hat trick sailed back into my consciousness.

Slieve Donard in the distance on a much nicer day.  Funnily enough I didn't take any pics today! 

I'm heading off to the famous Pikes Peak race in Colorado in two weeks, representing NI in the World Long Distance Mountain Running Champs.  The route for that race is an all uphill 13.3 miles gaining around 2500m of elevation.  To make matters much worse, the finish is above 14,000 feet, a height where the limited oxygen can leave you gasping for air when you're just standing still!  Extensive research has sadly taught me that for us sea levellers there's nothing we can do when competing at altitude except turn up a month in advance and acclimatise.  Also sadly, sport's funding bodies don't value us mountain runners very highly and so there's no chance of our team being given that opportunity despite physiology tests proving that top mountain runners are at least on a par with top Olympians.  If it's not Olympic or Commonwealth, there's no cash available (not that I'm bitter!).  Anyway, I'm digressing.  Realising that I couldn't simulate high altitude I decided that at least I could try to recreate the difficulty of the Pikes Peak route.  I was fortunate enough to spend an amazing month with the family in Chamonix and Lake Garda during June and July where I was able to put in some big runs with big ascents, adding a new level of endurance to the fitness gained from a great season of competing in Ireland.  Upon returning home I was looking for a breakthrough session that would test me to the degree that the Worlds will, whilst also demonstrating to myself the pacing and nutrition approaches I'll need in order to perform my best in Colorado.  With a bit of thinking the answer was staring me in the face, it was time to resurrect the Hat Trick.

I planned to put the attempt at the end of a heavy training week which included a fast, hilly 18 mile trail run on Monday and a double Donard on Wednesday along with two shorter recovery runs.  In the end I only ran a single Donard on the Wed as I thought my legs were a feeling a bit heavy.  In actuality I ended up feeling great and knocked out a sub 1hr lap which felt so easy that a couple of hours later I'd forgotten that I'd actually trained that day.  A rest day on Friday and I was all prepped and psyched, and then I saw the weather forecast!  Torrential rain and a weather warning for County Down wasn't part of the plan and I felt an initial pang of annoyance but then I saw that the wind was coming from the North giving me potentially a rare tailwind for much of the climb and I perked up a lot.  I don't care about getting soaking but pushing into a headwind repeatedly gets boring very quickly.  The other great motivator was that the Seven Sevens race was taking place in the Mournes that day, a race I was originally going to enter but wimped out when I got injured scoping the course out.  The winner of that race is always aiming to go sub 4hrs and I knew that the winner was likely to be my occasional training partner Seamy Lynch.  A quick text to Seamy and a bet was made, whoever finished their race first was promised a free lunch!

So to this morning.  I prepared as I always do for a race, eating well 2.5 hrs before and then getting as much fluid in as possible.  I planned to start at 9:58, just before the 10am start time for the Sevens so I wouldn't be interfering in the race at all.  You get a lot of thinking time when running so I think the best way to describe my attempt is by sharing my own internal dialogue.

Lap 1
Start easy, find a place to stash a water bottle for later.  11 mins at the ice house is about right but I feel bloated, I clearly ate too much.  I'm sick in my mouth a bit but swallow it knowing I'll need those calories later.  The flatter mid section feels great, I've found a good pace and rhythm and it feels totally effortless.  There's a slight tailwind which feels brilliant, I lose count of the amount of times I've battered into a headwind up here.  On to the really steep steps and the wind is picking up.  Through the col and onto the summit ridge and it's blowing a gale, the icy rain is battering me and it can't be much above zero degrees with the wind chill.  My jacket goes on, I can't see it coming off again today.  Hit the top in 43:20, about perfect.  My legs feel great, no strain at all, time for a steady descent.  Eat three jelly babies, one makes a bid for freedom and jumps back out of my mouth.  Good measured descent, I hit the bottom at 1:10:45, close enough to 3hr 30 pace and feeling totally relaxed.

Lap 2
How the hell are you meant to take on a gel when running up a 25% hill?  I can't even open the stupid thing.  Finally bite the top off and extract the remains that haven't squirted all over my hands.  Grab the stashed bottle and have a quick swig.  Legs feel fantastic, still really easy and totally different to my old double Donards.  Loving the confused looks on the faces of people who have seen me ascending twice now.  Not even out of breath so saying a cheery hello to everyone I meet.  There are some miserable bastards on the hill today, can you really not muster a reply?!  Kudos to the Dub fella who asks if I've forgotten my wallet!  I tell him I left my fags at the top.  Meet Jim Patterson, local running legend walking down.  He tells me he knows I'm in training but today is the wrong weather.  I respect Jim's opinion and his observation worries me.  Five minutes later I meet Anne Sandford, NI team selector and she asks whether this is my second or third ascent and gives me some support, I feel instantly much better.  The track is now a stream higher up on the mountain and the wind smashes me again on the summit ridge.  43:35 up, delighted to see that my pacing is near perfect so far.  All three jelly babies make it to my stomach this time, now for the descent.  I get a strange sensation of enjoyment, real enjoyment!  The descent feels fast and smooth, feet precise, plenty of grip.  So busy waxing lyrical about my new Inov8 X Talon shoes that I catch an edge and go over on my damaged ankle.  No amount of taping would stop that.  Familiar feelings of nausea but I know I can run this one off, concentrate, concentrate.  Hit the bottom in 2:19:53.  I've clawed time back and I still feel strong.  Last time I was in this position I was virtually crawling across the car park!

Lap 3
Better effort on the gel this time, learned behaviours!  The legs feel a bit heavier, calves stiffening for the first time and the quads know they've been busy.  Still hit 11 mins to the ice house so the pacing is still good but it feels harder this time.  I feel a bit fuzzy around the edges, slight hallucinations in my peripheral vision, other runners.  I'm convinced I've slowed but want to give myself a chance at 3:30 with a good descent.  Grind out the final section of the summit ridge, hit the top and touch the tower, glance at the watch, 3:03:03!  Incredible, my fastest ascent of the three at 43:10.  Amazing effort at constant pacing too.  Realise that I've still got plenty in the tank and with a decent descent should complete the challenge within the time.  Feet aren't so precise now but I'm attacking hard.  No need to hold back.  Loving the temperature rise as I descend.  Grab the stashed bottle, no way I'm going to come back up for it.  Out of the trees and sprint, a genuine smooth, relaxed sprint for the finish in the car park.  3:25:13.  Incredible.  I let out an involuntary whoop which gets me chatting to the walkers who hit the bottom at the same time as me.  The time has blown me away but more than that, I still feel strong.  I keep running back to the van, reckon I've got another ascent in me.  Pretty sure I've never felt this fit in my life, delighted and really excited.

So there it is.  A challenge completed and a really gratifying demonstration of how fitness can change and evolve.  I thought I was fit in 2012 but clearly now I'm on a different plane altogether.  The longer runs I've been doing have obviously contributed massively but the ease of it all, particularly in really trying conditions has astounded me.  With three ascents all within 25 seconds of eachother and progressively faster laps culminating in a 1:05:20 for the last one it's safe to say that I got my pacing pretty spot on.  The nutrition went well despite Fort Knox gel packets and freedom seeking jelly babies.  All in all I genuinely couldn't be more satisfied.  I just hope that I can somehow pull off a similar performance at altitude!

As a postscript, I let Seamy off the bet.  He won the Sevens in a very respectable 4:02 despite some questionable navigation and frankly it's a lot harder than my triple Donard.  I think the only fair thing to do is for him to do the Hat Trick and see who's time is faster.  I'll have my steak medium rare thanks Seamy!