Exorcising the Diet Nazi Within

Some demons were exorcised on Saturday.

A record breaking performance in a short(ish) course mountain race laid to rest nagging doubts over a seeming lack of power and speed.  In an injury blighted season, characterised by untimely physiological breakdowns and retrospectively avoidable bike crashes, I've faced an ongoing struggle to get near to tauntingly fast training performances from the previous couple of years.

Smiling through the pain, delighted at finding peak performance again despite a love of Double Decker bars!

It's not been for want of effort or desire.  Despite the pain of a torn shoulder rotator, initially burning and insistent and latterly stiff and restrictive, long forays into the mountains have been endured and enjoyed in unequal measure.  Some have even tickled at the grail of peak performance but fallen a few tantalising minutes short of past marks, denying the satisfaction and bred-confidence that accompanies continuous improvement.

Doubt is always lurking, ready to creep into consciousness from the outer reaches of the psyche where it likes to exist.  Is it age?  Will I never again hit those heights?  And yet, along with these questions has come an unexpected release from a damagingly obsessive mindset that has occasionally threatened to destroy my love of this amazing activity altogether.

I'd be the first to admit that the runner's curse has long exercised its control over my decision making, that destructive force of negativity underpinning all facets of daily life.  Those of you who have also experienced this will recognise the signs immediately, when everything you consider doing must initially pass the mental filter that decides whether a chosen activity will be beneficial or detrimental to running performance.  It's totally binary, activities that aid are allowed, activities that damage or hinder are discarded, yes or no, one or zero.

Family holiday?  Has to be near to mountains and include journeys that fit with training schedules.

Night out?  Extremely unlikely, unless the preceding day involved 'pre-burning' thousands of calories with an excessively brutal session.

Fancy a pint?  No thanks (because I'd rather eat those 250 odd calories in solid food).

I'm guessing that those reading this will split between nodding knowingly at a glimpse into the mirror of shared obsession, or shaking heads in a mix of pity and bewilderment at the lengths of fun-avoidance that are so prevalent in a lifestyle skewed towards fitness above all else.

And from a bodily perspective, those tough (but inevitable) decisions can yield incredible results!  When it goes right, the discipline to eat better, train harder and sacrifice more creates stronger athletes, but not without potential repercussion.  The accompanying mental frailties of an 'at-all-costs' approach can be utterly crushing, especially when performances fall short of expectations.  It's no surprise that the world of professional sports is riddled with damaged mindsets, crises of confidence and underlying mental health issues.  The strive for perfection will always be fruitless, it's an intangible concept that will always taunt the seeker.

Grimacing through the pain, mile-long sprint finishes hurt but aren't hindered by a few pints the weekend before!

I read with interest, anger and disappointment the fact that Petro Mamu, 'winner' of the recent World Long Distance Mountain Running Champs, in which I competed for Ireland, has failed a drugs test.  My anger isn't for myself, after all, I've now gained a place, but for those who were denied the rightful rewards for their undeniable efforts, particularly Francesco Puppi, who's gold medal was stolen from him by a drugs cheat and who should've stood atop the podium in his home nation.

Personal opinion only, but backed by hearsay from many reliable sources, I believe drugs are becoming rife in amateur sport, polluting bodies and cheapening performances.  I firmly believe all levels of competition are witnessing those whose mindsets fail to appreciate the boundaries, justifying artificial enhancements to gain a competitive edge or merely through curiosity.  I've been tested, I'm clean, and I simply can't comprehend ignoring both the moral imperative and potential health detriments of pumping your system with those toxins.  However, human nature is sometimes hard-wired to push the limits.  I hoped naively that the limited financial rewards within mountain running would keep the cheats at bay but unfortunately that's clearly not the case.  Worryingly, there's also the distinct possibility that more robust testing procedures will witness more failures, simply on a law of averages.

Anyway, I digress, the blog was meant to be about ditching the self-destructive puritanical streak that dictates lifestyle choice in a distinctly un-rounded direction.  This season has seen a more relaxed attitude altogether, still extremely healthy but not ridiculously restrictive, and mental health has undeniably benefitted as a result.  Last night, after a very satisfactory sporting weekend, I happily saw off three pints of Guinness, a salted caramel Magnum and a Double Decker, behaviour that was unthinkable just two years previously when I wouldn't even drink a sugary hot chocolate in the month before an event!  Today, as-per-plan, I ran a mountainous 23 miler and felt none the worse for the previous evening's excesses.  It's all just sugars really, and over three hours and 2,000 vertical metres of slippery trails and battering headwinds will see off those easy-burned calories with change to spare.

Saturday's result demonstrated that the new approach can still produce peak performances.  No drugs required, no fascist eating regime, just a happy mental state and hard training.  Now I'm off for a vindaloo and a bottle of gin, I'd advise against anyone following me tomorrow morning!



Photo credits for the superb shots are Judith Robinson and Jayne Bell respectively.  Thanks a million for documenting a great day out so well.

The Privilege of Pain

I'm knackered.

That dizzying, slightly drunk feeling tiredness that seeps into your being.  Brain a touch slower and limbs, although not drained of energy, lacking a certain co-ordination.

And I'm hungry.

Not quite the fridge hoovering post-race binge, but a nagging, unquenchable emptiness, only quietened with a steady flow of nuts and fruit tea.

The crazy thing is that these are unfamiliar post-training reactions for me.  Last week I managed over twenty hours, including four long trips into the mountains at various speeds and a hilly hundred-miler on the bike.  All of those fitted comfortably within a busy enough working week and usual family fun time without any of the current symptoms.  The difference is that after a year-long absence, the dreaded hill reps have re-commenced.

Doesn't look much but round the corner she steepens and goes on and on.

Today's session really boiled down to just ten minutes and eight seconds; within the context of usual efforts not even a quarter of the initial climb into the mountains.  However, the gut-churning, soul-scraping nature of the intensity generated shock reactions, body unsure how to process unfamiliar stresses.  Those five sets of two-minutes reduced well-honed quads to quivering wrecks and forced heart-rate into the unwelcome and possibly unhealthy reaches, way beyond familiar thresholds.  For the first time in memory, breathing was insufficient, the final rep accompanied by a panicked panting that couldn’t service desperate lungs, like windscreen wipers unable to clear a deluge.

Last night’s dreams were dominated by a recurring theme, a repeat loop of impending dread endlessly culminating at the base of that climb.  As ever with this session, the jog in was taken at a deliberately ponderous pace, accompanied by spurious excuses to further dither.  Any last requests for the condemned man?

And yet I still did it, all alone.

No shared burden with clubmates, milking the motivation of combined suffering.  No coach or trainer bellowing encouragement, adding extrinsic meaning to arbitrary timings.  No reason at all not to back-off a touch, just un-turn the screw, drift to the line instead of the desperate drive, eyes on stalks and bile in the throat.  No reason except desire.

In a relative write-off of a season, a renewed appreciation of health has become dominant.  Sessions like these aren’t a burden to dread, they’re a gateway to happiness and satisfaction, and being able to survive them, to force positive bodily adaption is a privilege.  Fitness is a gift, a combination of hard-work, dedication and particularly at my age, a bit of luck.  I think it was Billy Bland who said that racing was the reward for all the hours of unheralded toil and he was right.  That unique feeling when questions are asked of physical capability and the body has the answers is extremely special.

On Saturday, I’m finally lining up again for a short-course race.  It’ll be 13km of desperately steep terrain, bogged out by incessant rainfall, getting dragged along by the best mountain runners in the country.  It’s going to be hell and I’ll probably get battered.

I can’t wait!

  

The Curse of Egotism

My Garmin bleeped at me signalling the first mile completed.  Glancing down I quickly absorbed the information, a 6:18 mile, heart rate 149, mostly uphill, all in order for a steady effort.  Rounding the corner the trail steepened and I should've backed off to compensate but instead without much conscious input my chest leaned forward slightly, knees rose and weight transferred to my toes as I upped the tempo and increased the pace.  Maintaining a casual, effortless facial expression I breezed past the lady sat on the boulder with a cheery 'hiya', the lack of heavy breathing despite the almost sprint speed highlighting my physical prowess.

The trail levelled and my watch insistently warned me of a deviation from the specified heart rate zone, the delayed reaction of technology catching up with the noticeable beating from my chest.  I admonished myself angrily, what was I doing?  Why the hell had I pushed hard like that?  This was meant to be a recovery run, entirely fuelled by my aerobic system, minimal effort and an opportunity for my muscles to actively recover from the previous day's intervals hell.

Recovering my composure and dropping the effort allowed time to analyse my bizarre reaction to being observed.  It certainly wasn't a primal, alpha male mating call.  I wasn't showing off my running capabilities as a weak effort at being attractive.  In many ways I wish it had been, at least that could be excused as a natural process, driven by the evolutionary requirement to attract the opposite sex, to secure a mate and guarantee the survival of the species.  Sadly it was something much cheaper, dirtier and indicative of an inherent lack of maturity, I'd accelerated past the walker because of ego.

These days I'd like to think I'm not massively egotistical.  I certainly used to be, breezing through my mid-twenties on a wave of financial and sporting success whilst located in the South of England where brash overconfidence is lauded, made it an inevitability.  Since then, a decade in Ireland has mellowed me.  The Irish have a mistrust of success to some degree and whilst they're still quick to congratulate, they're even quicker to ensure that nobody is allowed to take themselves too seriously, cutting egos down to size before they begin to grow and mutate.  I've embraced this mindset wholeheartedly, preferring to seek self-satisfaction over external admiration to the extent that I'm a bit embarrassed by praise, but on occasions that egotistical side can still fight through and become the dominant force again.

Winning breeds confidence, confidence breeds ego, ego breeds expectation and expectation breeds the fear!

Ego is a curse.  In running terms it has cost me the purity of racing for racing's sake.  I occasionally jealously watch competitors coming over the line together, way down the field but with smiles as wide as their faces, eschewing the sprint in order to share the final moments with their friends.  I'll have always finished way before, gnashing my teeth in a fast finish, often simply against the clock to put more time into my rivals and sew more doubt in their minds next time we line up together.  Don't get me wrong, I love to race, to compete and push myself, to move rapidly through technical terrain.  I delight in the camaraderie, sharing that indescribable pain of extreme effort and its unique bonding qualities that make lifelong friends out of new acquaintances, but I also love to win.  Winning fuels the ego and with ego comes expectation.

I'll rarely start a race unless I feel in peak condition because my ego won't allow me to lose.  I'll dig deeper, hurt more and grind out results rather than admit defeat.  And so I usually expect to win, but expectation can only bring disappointment as victories are anticipated and defeats are doubly gutting.  As a result I've probably missed out on some wonderful experiences and also probably further success because I was unwilling to take part for fear of losing.  This is ego and ego breeds the fear.

Often the races that I enjoy the most are the ones with no expectations, ones where I flog myself to death with no possibility of winning.  This season has seen me virtually undefeated but my favourite race was the Worlds where my body fell apart and I fought beyond the pain to just dip into the top forty.  For once I was the runner crossing the line way down the field, the relief of finishing far overriding any egotistical need to excel.  Perhaps I should only do International standard races?!

Shattered and satisfied despite defeat, the Worlds is no place for ego

Back to yesterday.  The unwanted sprint on unprepared muscles tore deep into my calves.  A pinpoint burning was a precursor to a wider tightening that developed throughout the rest of the session.  By the evening I was limping slightly and by morning today's scheduled tempo session was shelved.  Now I'm staring at a potential injury, disruption to my preparations and worst of all a possible inability to get into the mountains.

I'm hugely annoyed at myself for the frivolity of my actions.  Why would I care if someone saw me running slowly?  Why didn't I have the maturity to just maintain the correct outputs, keep the legs turning over and the heart in the right zone?  Why, at 38 do I still feel the need to prove myself to total strangers who don't give a damn whether I can run fast up a hill?  The power of egotism is strong and to maximise recovery, appreciate the truly important facets of life, avoid injury and guarantee my long term participation in the sport I love I need to keep taming its urges.

I'll think back to this blog next time I round that corner, and then probably still kick on regardless!

Olympic Dreams - Can A Part Timer Be World Class?

I like the Olympics.  It's not just the fact that as a non Sky TV subscriber it actually gives me the opportunity to watch some live sport on TV.  It's not even the fact that the BBC's lust for medal coverage gives some relative minority sports and their talented proponents some otherwise non-existent mainstream TV coverage.  More than all that I like it because to some degree I feel I understand.

I love the fact that all these individuals are prepared and capable of being so totally focused towards a single goal.  The way that they'll put their bodies and minds through untold strain and pressure for years with the carrot of Olympic success as an incentive.  For the victors a gold medal can be a life-changing result, not just in terms of financial gain and personal recognition, they've got the opportunity at a young age to write a key line of their own epitaphs.  Whatever may befall them over the course of their life their names will always be preceded by 'Olympic gold medallist...' 

Listening to athletes being interviewed there is often a palpable sense of relief at ambitions realised and you'll hear mention of 'sacrifice' and 'pressure' above 'enjoyment' or 'satisfaction'.  At this elite, World Class level the need for results has often transcended the desire to enjoy their chosen sports.  These lucky few who are able to pursue their dreams full time, training and competing for a living, can also be tainted by the experience, losing sight of the reasons they compete in the first place.

Part time Internationals.  Professional preparation without the wages!

I'm not an Olympic athlete but I understand sacrifice.  I know what it is to drag myself out into horizontal rain and zero visibility, to condemn myself to hours of continual pain, to dread a session so much that I can't sleep even two nights before.  I know how it feels to deny myself things that most people take for granted, to stare into a kitchen cupboard six times in an evening before dragging myself away because weight is everything in my chosen sport.  And yet for me, and others like me who's sport doesn't get the Olympic seal of approval there isn't that all-consuming goal.  Instead we look to other events as the pinnacle of our achievements and accept that the financial rewards will never be there.

I'm not deluded.  There's a strong chance that if mountain running became an Olympic discipline then I'd no longer be one of Ireland's best.  Younger athletes with far fewer commitments would be able to potentially take my place, training almost full time and unaffected by the responsibilities that come with advancing age.  However, that said, I'd be surprised if my lab statistics were that different to your average Olympian, my resting heart rate, V02 max and fat percentages would almost certainly put me near that level so maybe I could've been there in Rio had my chosen sport been chosen.  As it stands I've competed at two World Championships, the peak of mountain running events, most recently finishing 39th in one of the strongest fields assembled.  I was very pleased to get that result and equally happy to initially meet the selection criteria to represent internationally but the fact is that I was 9% off being in the top ten which seems to me to be quite a lot.  It's left me with the quandary of how much faster would I need to be to realistically call myself world class?

So what does world class even mean?  Obviously my first port of call is Google, so a quick look turns up several similar definitions;

'Being among the best or foremost in the world; of an international standard of excellence'

'of or denoting someone with a skill or attribute that puts him or her in the highest class in the world'

'ranked among the world's best; of the highest caliber'

Given those fairly wide and subjective definitions I'd find it pretty easy to justify tagging myself 'world class'.  After all, amongst all of the World's mountain and trail runners I rank in the top 40.  However, when you dig deeper there are other factors to consider.  For a start, all the world's best mountain runners weren't present in Slovenia, just the top four selected from each nation.  That means that stronger nations like Italy, GB and the USA probably have runners on the bench who would have beaten me.  Likewise, there are many other top runners who would've chosen not to try for the Worlds, favouring other goals instead.  More telling for me is the consideration that Alessandro Rambaldini ran a 3:44:52, a full forty odd minutes and 15% faster than I managed.  If we equated those times to an Olympic discipline like the marathon then if we assume he would run something like a 2:10:00 (about average for an Olympic marathon winner) then I'd have run a 2:29:30, fast but still ten minutes outside the IAAF marathon qualifying time for the Olympics.

Crossing the line at the World Champs.  Fast but not World Class

So my World Championships performance probably wasn't a world class performance.  I can live with that, but a second question is then posed, have I ever done one?  There's no doubt in my mind that the Slovenia race wasn't my best ever performance.  The heat, humidity, distance and sheer size of the hills took a heavy toll and although I dug deep and beat plenty of excellent runners I was still hoping to go about 15 minutes faster, a time that would have placed me in the top twenty.  Over the last year a couple of results stick out for me, my records on both Slieve Donard and the Mourne Skyline, two very different races and two standout performances.

My 53:40 lap of Slieve Donard is almost a minute faster than anyone else has ever run for that exact route but realistically I know it probably wouldn't stand up to scrutiny.  I'm pretty confident that on the right day I could go sub 52:30 myself and given that my strengths seem to lie in the longer races I reckon the World's best could do somewhere near to 50 minutes.  That would put my record theoretically about 7% off the best achievable, definitely getting closer to world class.  The result that really interests me though is my October 2015 Mourne Skyline record.  Almost certainly my best ever run, it saw me beat second place Dan Doherty (17th in the World Ultra Trail Champs that year) by almost thirteen minutes with a 3:51:22.  My time also beat Kim Collison's previous record by almost six minutes.

Mountain race records are a bit arbitrary really, there are so many factors, primarily weather and ground condition related that have a huge impact on times on any given day.  The longer and more difficult a race, the greater the environment caused time variations.  However, I've reason to believe that my time last year may well be genuinely quick.  Given that the Mourne Skyline has only been run twice, my assertion is purely conjectural at this point but as the Skyline is part of the prestigious UK Skyrunner Series it has already established itself as Ireland's premier mountain race.  It's the only race here which draws top international names and as such my record will be challenged over the coming years by some genuine world classers.  I look forward to seeing if it stands the test of time.

So, when it comes to mountain running I reckon that it's safe to say that I don't quite have what it takes to consistently rank amongst the true world class athletes.  I am however hopefully capable of occasionally reaching their levels when the conditions and course suit my talents.  I'm confident that as a 38 year old with a busy business, a permanent part-time job and two young kids I can certainly call myself a part-time athlete.  I train as hard as I can for as much time as I can fit in but my schedule is generally fitted around daily life with other factors taking precedence.  Surprisingly this does still allow me to often train around fifteen hours a week but the recovery time is non-existent and it's actually that lack of genuine rest rather than lack of training that sets aside my routine from professionals.  In other factors such as diet I could barely be more disciplined and probably put many pros to shame. 

On my way to setting another big record on Slieve Donard. How would the World's best fare on this route?

So can any part-timers be world class?

I need to make the definition here between amateurs and part-timers.  Mountain running is an almost entirely amateur sport but there are plenty of athletes who manage to live like professionals, getting by through bursaries, sponsorship and part-time jobs, often within the industry, that are very supportive of their athletic endeavours.  To all intents and purposes these are not part-timers and I occasionally jealously read of the exploits of running acquaintances who seem to be able to just train constantly with few other considerations.  I do however know for a fact that some of the top British fell runners are proper part-timers and are also amongst the World's best so it can be managed.  I just need to find that magic formula before age starts to signal my inevitable gradual deceleration.

So back to the title question and the simple answer is yes, I think extremely disciplined and driven part-timers can be world class.  As for myself, I'll keep plugging away at the mountain running and hope that the accumulation of miles will keep pushing me towards that World's top ten.  In the meantime I have the consolation that when it comes to parallel parking and hoovering I'm almost peerless and when they become Olympic disciplines you'll see me beaming out from cereal packets and Quorn adverts into your own homes.  Watch this space...



 

Burning Soles - The Snowdon International Mountain Race

I was recently fortunate enough to have the honour of captaining the Northern Ireland International mountain running team at the World famous Snowdon race, here's a report I knocked up for various publications.

Team Northern Ireland were as always invited to the annual Snowdon International mountain race on July 18th.  The event, celebrating its 40th anniversary forms the highlight of a week long festival in Llanberis, the 'outdoor capital of Wales' and is attended by the cream of European mountain runners as well as a fair few 'ordinary' folk.  Team NI were in confident mood, boasting strong squads in both the male and female races.  The men's team consisted of NIMRA and Hill and Dale champ Seamus Lynch, Slieve Donard winner Ian Bailey, UK based Gavin Mulholland (currently third in the British series) and Mourne Runner's Sam Herron fresh back from success in the Mont Blanc marathon.  The women's squad were also looking powerful with NIMRA champ Shileen O'Kane, Slieve Donard champion Diane Wilson and long distance expert BARF's Jackie Toal.

The course itself was reverted back to the original 1976 route, adding an extra kilometre of road running to the usual tortuous ten miles which climbs to 1,085 metres, the highest point in Britain outside the Scottish Highlands, before plummeting back down to the centre of Llanberis.  This event truly feels unique for several reasons, the huge and vocal crowds, the brutality of the man made track surface and the buckets of water on hand at the finish line to cool the runner's blistered soles.  It's definitely one for the bucket list of any runner and for us NI Internationals it's a chance to compare ourselves to the legendary local hardman Robbie Bryson whose 1985 ascent record still stands.

Conditions didn't help in the search for fast times with a strong and blustery wind battering the competitors with increasing force as they gained elevation.  Nevertheless, the pace was predictably brisk through the town and up the 25% gradient road to the Llanberis trail that forms the majority of the route.  Rhythm is everything in this race and so our team members tucked in and ground out the ascent in their own styles, mindful of the need to keep plenty in reserve for one of the toughest descents in British mountain racing.  For the NI men, Gavin turned at the summit first followed by Seamus, Sam and Ian.  In the ladies race Shileen again showed her climbing prowess, topping out before Diane and Jackie.  The top half of the descent allowed our mountain expertise to shine against others in the field who were a bit more selective about their foot placements.  Split times for the descents show near four minute mile averages down the steeper sections giving an idea of the technical abilities as well as steely mindsets of our Mournes honed athletes!  After a quad pounding five miles and in front of a vociferous and already half cut crowd the NI runners made their ways home.  Gavin (11th), Seamus (22nd), Ian (31st) and Sam (36th) finished well in a men's field of nearly 500.  Diane (10th), Shileen (13th) and Jackie (17th) showed very well amongst 125 female athletes.  Not quite enough to secure team medals but a very creditable effort in such high quality fields.

Post race smiles!

As is traditional, team NI then went on to show their prowess in the bars of Llanberis with a couple of medicinal drinks to soothe the rapidly stiffening joints.  Massive credit to the ladies who managed to get out for a loosening run the following morning.  The men were more set on enjoying a rare fried breakfast as a reward for their efforts, especially Sam 'double sausage' Herron.  Other weekend highlights included Seamy losing his boarding card in the terminal and nearly not making the boat, the ladies 'accidentally' ordering double portions in Pete's Eats, a cafe already notorious for its large portions and Team Ireland's Ian Conroy being whisked off by customs never to reappear!

The next International fixture is the Home International on August 22nd in Betwys-y-Coed.

So that was that!  As a postscript to the article, three days later I'm still hobbling around with stiff quads, blistered feet and heavily bruised toenails which will no doubt fall off again.  I've also been to the doctors to see about a chest problem that has hindered me for the last few weeks and it's a relief to know there's a reason why I couldn't get going on the climb accounting for my disappointing finishing position.  I'm looking forward to getting fixed up and back into the Mournes and a possible Seven Sevens debut.

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...