Feb 1st
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 26th
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!
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