Switching on the Lights - The World Long-Distance Mountain Running Champs 2017

The sky blackened almost instantly, a malevolent darkness banishing all shadows, accompanied by a foreboding deep rumble. The thunder stretching out a baritone roar before cracking in a spectacular crescendo. Huge droplets began to fall, instant saturation and brown rivers for trails, icy flows shocking a reaction from exhausted feet. 

I’d best describe the feeling as if someone had just turned on the lights. The hazy sluggishness that had blighted the last 150 minutes instantly ejected. Eyes suddenly focused and a primal energy, finally feeling the mental re-connect between brain and body, previously eroded as a defence mechanism against the pain, anguish and disappointment. It may be too late to really matter but it was suddenly time to race. 

Winning the qualifier - Maurice Mullins Wicklow Way Ultra

Here I was again, the World Long Distance Mountain Running Champs.  Another chance to represent Ireland, another chance to pit myself against the best and an opportunity to renew old friendships and create new ones.  This lifestyle could never be a chore, being sent to incredible places by generous federations simply because of the ability to move faster than the norm over steep, uneven and technical ground.  Yet personal ambition can serve to taint these occasions, to create undue pressure that can overwhelm the undeniable enjoyment.  Ultimately, I try to rise above such frivolities, just being there and experiencing is reward enough, but intrinsic desires can be difficult to silence; this year I wanted top twenty. 

Preparation for these landmark events has become a self-perpetuated cliché.  Train well early season, excel at the qualifying event to guarantee selection and subsequently injure myself in the interim, hindering progress at key junctures.  At least this year it was a mountain bike smash rather than the usual over-ambitious mileage.  A torn rotator cuff at the end of April was poorly timed, destroying domestic race ambitions and forcing some creative session planning.  Stints of one-armed turbo-training and terrifying fights for footing on treadmills, rapidly succumbed to pain-defying journeys back into my beloved Mourne Mountains.  Adopting a stiff, right-side dominant style created numerous physiological issues, and descending in slow motion through terror of falling was humiliating, but at least I was out doing what I love.  Ultimately, the distances, and corresponding physical attributes came through, with a first-ever quadruple Slieve Donard (22.4 miles and 3,400m of ascent/descent) dispatched, convincing my fragile mental state that I’d at least last the distance. Unfortunately, the shoulder had prevented any speed work, denying that amazing race-tuned feeling that breeds vital confidence. 

Torn shoulder and some creative training

The Giir Di Mont is a wish-list event, famed for spectacular beauty, inhumanely steep rises and a massively vocal and passionate crowd.  The Italians certainly know how to do mountain races and Premana was no different to previous experiences, a tangible feeling that you’re undertaking something that matters to more than just your own ego. Being swooped from the airport by classically attractive Italian ladies to a waiting BMW reminded me instantly of the advantages of international selection, as did the breath-taking view from the hotel window.  Being the sole Irish representative guaranteed the luxury of a huge room and nobody else to annoy with hastily strewn kit, but also forced an unfamiliar sociability, beyond the usual ‘bubble’ of team mates.  Despite my social anxiety, I needn’t have worried, the mountain running fraternity were, as always, as friendly as they are interesting, and very soon I was at home amongst new friends. 

Usual preparations, unfolding journey-fatigued legs and fretting over weather conditions and footwear selection. There was talk of course alterations if the threatened lightning appeared, ridges and peaks are no place to be with millions of volts marauding free.  Come race time though and the skies were clear, an oppressive mugginess like a physical weight, a sheen of sweat from the lightest of warm-ups.  Packed-in like sardines, the elbows-out hustle of initial exchanges and then settling into a rhythm designed for efficient forward propulsion. The race was on. 

Always a proud moment.  Team Ireland (me!) at the opening ceremony

A downhill start was an unwelcome novelty, hard not to cause lasting damage when the field are set on sub five-minute miles.  Torn between maintaining contact with the front, and fear of over-cooking, I allowed myself to be swept along mid-field.  Plenty of time for making up places when the ascents began, or so I hoped.  The reality was the horrific realisation that my feet were sucking invisible quicksand, muscles weary and head lolling despite the race being very much in its infancy. Climb one, an 800-vertical metre brute with steep, narrow trails should’ve been bread and butter, not the tumultuous mental struggle that it proved.  Knowing you’re going so badly, so early on is a double blow, dreams rapidly disappearing and the bleak realisation that the suffering has barely begun. 

The far side of the climb saw essential respite as crag-like technicality underfoot brought out a broad grin and my reckless side.  Unfeasibly steep drops were dispatched with lightweight skips and numerous places were gained.  Making the classic mistake of switching off once the slopes eased, I managed to badly turn an ankle, one of those where you get to see the tread pattern on the sole of your own shoe.  Admonishing myself loudly, I pressed on gingerly, you can run those off but it takes time. 

Stunning views but there's pain to come among

 the peaks

Climb two commenced with a shallow gradient and solid surface, my least favourite combination. The victims of my lightning descent cruised back past, their gearboxes on a different ratio to mine. A new experience as a helicopter downdraft created a micro-hurricane, fruitless to oppose such forces, progress slowed to a crawl.  As seems to be the case, the lowest ebb brings the kindest reactions from rivals who share that intimate knowledge of suffering.  Recognising the pain, a Slovenian offered motivational encouragement before top GB runner Vic Wilkinson invited me to run in her slipstream. Hanging gamely on for a few minutes, the elastic soon snapped, leaving me alone once again to the frustration and struggle. 

Anticipation of another lengthy descent drew enough reserves to survive to the col where a cacophony of noise barely registered with pain-dulled senses. Looking to salvage pride, I threw myself vigorously into the initial switchbacks, tripping, cramping and stopping dead.  Self-pity and acceptance of failure, all that remained was a prolonged death-march to the finish.  And yet, I wasn’t even half way through the distance, a fact previously shielded from my conscience by the internal drive of inevitable completion.  I don’t drop out of races, full-stop.  Never have, and barring genuine injury, never will.  What’s the point when you still have to make your way home, regardless of whether you’ve metaphorically torn off the number?  The numerous helicopters were busy enough extracting several genuine casualties, focus on the next mile and eventually sweet relief will come. Secretive deals brokered between brain and legs, finish this one and we’ll never force you this deep again, time to retire, out to pasture. 

The feed station represented a final throw of the dice. Team GB had kindly carried in essential sustenance, much required but never desired by a delicate, motion abused stomach.  Stopping to re-arrange gels and drinks cost a minute, normally an action considered beyond sacrilegious but I was way beyond caring.  The race could get fucked, one foot in front of the other, left, right and repeat.

Then came the deluge. 

Bright lights in the darkness, the sweet smell of mountain pastures and the noise, my god the pull of the din from an impending feed station.  As if woken from a coma I became suddenly aware of my breathing, my sleeping senses discovered a symbiosis with a newly athletic body.  TV camera in my face and a corridor of mayhem, like the Tour De France climbs, clapping hands, smiles, so much support from total strangers and that wall of sound.  My teeth appear for the first time in hours, not gritted now, opened wide in a disbelieving grin.  Legs churning, on the toes and feeling great, is this really a 25% slope? 

The final 5km ridge-line was a resurrection.  Climbing steadily, I pushed hard up the kicky rises, tempo pace round the cliff-hugging, bench-cut contours.  Passing others for fun at this stage of the race is a novelty, a delight.  Distant figures become targets in the crosshairs and a ridiculous tune trips into my mind, ‘the green train is coming, everybody out of the way’.  Rounding the final uphill corner, I re-pass Vic, never expected that!  One final huge descent, ultra-rocky, uneven, a real rhythm killer and a reality check.  Keep pushing hard but don’t forget to survive, I’m going to make it, tears prick at ducts, it’s been emotional. 

The cruel terminal rise is a step too far, an attempted sprint finish with Team GB’s Jack Wood ends predictably, his huge stride disappearing into the distance.  Push for the line, high fives with the kids hanging over the barrier and done.  Bent double, breathing hard and an overwhelming sense of relief, what the hell just happened? 

I finished 41st, an OK result, 41st in the World!  Comparative to ambition it’s a disappointment but running top 15 splits for the latter half of the race is a big consolation.  I can compete at this level, but still lack the undeniable evidence of finishing position.  Maybe next year. 

Exhausted but happy.  What the hell just happened?

From that point on it’s all smiles, alcoholic haze and the blending of cultures through the medium of drink and shared experience.  These people have a glow, the physical manifestation of health and fitness and a fire in the eyes.  Conversation comes easy, as does sleep once the party dies down.  I love mountain running and I love mountain runners, this was more than worth the suffering.  I hope I’ll be back for more. 

As ever, huge thanks to IMRA for sending me on these unique experiences and to Newcastle AC for some financial assistance. To Anna and the boys for tolerating my obsessive training. To the WMRA, Giir Di Mont organisers and the people of Premana who created such an incredible event, but most of all to the athletes, kindred spirits or as a drunken Bulgarian put it, ‘mountain brothers’; without all of you, this would be meaningless.

Dark Side Of The Mind - The World Long Distance Mountain Running Championships

'You lock the door and throw away the key, there's someone in my head but it's not me' 

Pink Floyd - Brain Damage.

Cramp hit instantly, a searing jolt up my calf with none of the familiar tickly warning shots.  Leaping high over the slippery jumble of wet rocks provided safety and speed but the repetitive jolts had extended my muscles too far.  The German I’d been tearing towards eased away and my mind went into instant overdrive.  I’m just 16km into a 42km race, there’s at least 1400m of climb and 2600m of descent still to endure.  If I back off and simply manage my physical state then I may be able to finish the course but this is the World Champs, I’m representing much more than just myself and it’s been an epic journey just to toe the start line.  There can be no let up, the World’s best mountain runners are biting at my heels and I’ve invested too much in this, too many hours slogging through the mire of a Mournes Winter.  Adjusting my gait I find a half skip that maintains momentum without further physical damage and try not to contemplate the suffering still to come.

Just twelve months ago I was a short course mountain runner, pretty rapid on unimaginably steep terrain but largely unproven on any distance over seven miles.  An unplanned sequence of events last season triggered a transformation familiar to many ageing athletes, I discovered an aptitude for the longer stuff and a liking for the protracted suffering of extended physical efforts as opposed to the horror of leg tearing, lung burning half hour sprints.  Twenty plus miles of mountain running requires a different approach, still constantly pushing hard but paying much greater heed to signs of physical degradation and playing off the odds of slower initial speeds to guarantee longer term survival.  This thoughtful, chess like approach to racing appeals greatly, it seems a more civilized way to suffer and so my pre-season race plans were devised around a totally different set of goals to previous years.

Half measures aren’t really in my make-up.  Having decided to focus on stamina based events I naturally sought out the race that would provide the greatest challenge.  The pinnacle of mountain running is the World Championships and so initial tentative contact was made with the Irish federation to ascertain what the selection criteria would be for the Long Distance Mountain Champs in 2016.  The upshot of that found me piling in the miles and battling serious injury over a stuttering, mentally draining but ultimately adequate Winter training block.  I’ve chronicled my unspectacular Wicklow Way Ultra attempt elsewhere.  It was an arduous and frustrating experience with a steep learning curve that ultimately saw me meet the Worlds selection requirements by just one minute in 250.  Duly chastened by my first ever Ultra I set about guaranteeing that Slovenia would be more positive. 

Subsequent training surpassed all expectations, particularly an eight week spell that saw me banging out multiple sub one-hour Slieve Donard repeats for fun, the fastest ever Mourne Skyline, a 3:34 Seven Sevens and all with minimal recovery time between epic mountain sessions and necessary tempo efforts.  I rounded off the block with a couple of races to check progress and duly broke my own Slieve Donard race record whilst comfortably defending the most prestigious of titles.  A late hamstring pull caused last minute concern but the enforced rest was probably beneficial.  I felt physically prepared and whilst obviously lacking pedigree over 26 miles I wasn’t overawed by the task ahead or the gathering of so many truly World Class athletes.

It's all about pulling on that jersey

The arduous journey to Bohinj, Slovenia took its toll with the final ninety minutes of impossibly narrow and twisting mountain roads compounding the nerve fraying madness of Italian motorways en-route from Milan.  It culminated in a vomiting child and a cramping arse muscle but this suffering was countered by the spectacular Alpine environment and the excitement of exploring a new country.  The timing of the Worlds, during a pre-planned holiday had presented a unique opportunity to drag my family along.  I was unsure whether the distraction would be a positive calming influence or would rob me of focus but having them there was a real joy and hopefully Anna and the boys were proud seeing me sporting the Ireland jersey.  The rest of the Irish lads arrived through the Thursday and so we gathered together on Friday to talk tactics and compare eating habits.  Although the usual Irish self-depracation was well in evidence as we mercilessly played down our chances I knew that we had a really talented squad.  Brian MacMahon, Eoin Lennon and Dan Doherty all have International experience in abundance and an enviable set of top class results in an extremely varied range of distances and terrains.  Having competed against Dan and Eoin before and followed Brian’s results I knew that I’d have my work cut out living with their abilities but evidently we had a very balanced squad and nobody could predict what order we’d finish in.  A Friday evening train journey to the race arena in Podbrdo allowed us a bit of time to scope out the finish area and stare up at the dauntingly steep surrounding cliffs as we guessed which of the distant ridges would form part of the Gorski marathon route.  The opening ceremony was predictably entertaining being paraded in front of the crowd accompanied by local school children and a repeat loop of ‘we are the champions’.  Formalities done we scoffed the available pasta and headed for bed, the familiar mix of excitement and trepidation multiplied several-fold by the unknown nature of the course and the stellar talent of the opposition.

Getting ready to be announced to the crowd inside

Race morning passed quickly, a 5am jog in already rising temperatures was a portent of the heat to come but I slipped into the standard routine and my automatic pilot landed me on the start line with a few minutes to spare.  The opening to the race was a confused affair with a mile long jog through the village behind a pace car.  The comfortable speed was a welcoming introduction but the additional unplanned distance certainly wasn’t.  As we passed under the huge inflatable barrier and over the timing beam the flags dropped and the car tore away, it was time to get down to business, months of prep over and no longer any hiding.  This was it, the World Championships, no excuses and no bullshit, just 120 of the best mountain runners in existence and a course that was deemed near impossible by local inhabitants when the Maraton Gorski was originally dreamt up.

The route itself can be summed up fairly simply.  Full marathon distance, from the start a continuous 15km climb gains 1250 metres of altitude before dropping about 1500m to the lowest point at kilometer 27.  Immediately kicking up again very steeply for another 1250 metre height gain over just 7km it then finishes with an eyeballs out 8km downhill sprint, quads screaming and feet burning, desperately seeking sight of the finish line and the relief of a dip in the river.

I was dreading the first climb.  I knew the gradient was too shallow and suspected the tracks too runnable to suit me.  I settled into a rhythm aiming to stay close enough to the front third of the race whilst hopefully not burning myself out for later efforts.  Initially going well it struck me that my pace would be tearing any Irish races to pieces but instead I saw the first forty runners gradually pulling away, lead by race favourite, team USA’s Andy Wacker, the differences between National and International competition perfectly encapsulated in one clear demonstration.  Just ahead of me Dan was plugging away with Eoin gaining distance and Brian long gone, he clearly had a slightly less tempered race plan than my own.

 

This initial effort lasted ninety minutes and passed through some of the most stunning scenery and enjoyable terrain I’ve ever experienced.  My body felt good and I was comfortably gaining altitude through the lower slopes before picking up places in the steep scree of the last kilometer.  I’d long dropped Dan who was clearly having a torrid time, form deserting him at the most inopportune moment.  He’ll be back in international duty again soon enough, defending his top 20 World Ultra distance ranking in October.  As the final rock strewn rise degenerated into loose switchbacks I passed Eoin, a friendly word and push on the back greatly welcomed, I can’t imagine athletes in other sports often being so warm spirited.  There was no sense of relief at topping out that first mountain, just a satisfaction that I’d got it right, my body felt strong and as I sprinted down the technical and broken initial track I picked up a couple more places, no indications of the sharp pain that was so imminent.

As previously mentioned, that initial burst of cramp was a real shock.  My body had given no indications that it was suffering and yet just a hundred minutes into a 270 minute race I was in real trouble.  A couple of minutes of a shuffling half-step relieved the pressure on the screaming muscles but the mental anguish wouldn’t dissipate so easily.  This wasn’t part of the plan; I’d paced well and am usually comfortable running these distances and elevations in training.  Perhaps the continual nature of the climb had pushed me further than anticipated and was compounded by the immediate repeated impact of the tricky descent.  I shoved a salt capsule into my mouth and awkwardly forced down a gel, no mean feat when skipping over such unpredictable terrain.  Shortly after this I was met by the unwelcome sight of Brian heading back towards me having abandoned the race.  His ambitious early pace, dualling with the front runners on the huge first ascent had emptied his legs beyond redemption.  Suddenly I found myself as the leading Irish runner, a thought that would have definitely buoyed me under better circumstances. 

I was praying to see this sight as soon as possible!

Missing out on the opportunity to pre-scope a course can be a serious disadvantage.  Mentally it’s extremely tough not knowing what awaits you around every corner and whilst I’d memorised the course profile it lacked sufficient detail for me to be truly confident.  I knew that this descent contained a short rise at some point but was completely unprepared for the length and degree of height re-gain.  Without fully recovered legs I crawled through this section, my mental state darkening as I slipped a few places, praying for the recommencing of the downhill.  The heat was beginning to play a part by now; sapping and oppressive every time we left the sanctity of the forests.  I’d joked with Dan prior to the race about the point of feed stations on downhills and why a 26 mile course had a full eighteen stops but with the fear of cramp and genuine prospect of chronic dehydration I was using every single one.  As an inevitable by-product of this re-hydrating I was hit by another unpleasant sensation, I was desperate to wee.  Dan had enlightened me about the ‘on-the-go’ technique sometimes employed during his crazy distance races.  Simply lifting your shorts a bit and maintaining stride whilst relieving yourself may be easy to the initiated but I wear knee length compression shorts and didn’t want to piss down my leg so decided to suffer on.  I had actually trained for this scenario, forcing myself not to go for hours during Mournes epics. The devil is in the detail!

After seemingly hours but actually only a handful of minutes the route descended again and my tough spell finally passed in time for me to speed through the low point where I grabbed a bottle off Brian and another off Team Ireland manager and all round gentleman Leo Mahon.  I was surprised to see Andy Wacker there, illness forcing his retirement, but unsurprised to see him smiling through his disappointment, I’ve never seen him not smiling!  The second climb wasted no time in kicking up to a 20% gradient and I glugged back some caffeine drink whilst settling into a rhythm.  Although I was now coping well I was disappointed at feeling sluggish.  This type of steep terrain is my speciality and would normally see me gaining time and places, even in such esteemed company.  I realised that all was still not well with my body and sank into survival mode, backing off to prevent blowing up.  With nothing to entertain me but the incessant grind my mind rapidly darkened again.  It’s at times like this that you really explore the inner workings of your psyche, drawing from more primal reserves to keep moving.  I have blurred memories of this epic ascent, a singing marshal, kind words from a Slovenian athlete, having to pull on fixed ropes as the trail was so steep and surprise at being passed by some top drawer athletes who I’d assumed were already ahead.  Rising beyond the tree line I finally saw the summit ridge laid out before me with about twenty athletes within striking distance.  I can recall shock at still being in touch with so many despite already having three and a half hours of running completed, I’d expected the field to fracture much more.  In better circumstances I’d have reveled in the task of chasing them down but the truth is that by that point the result was arbitrary to me; I just craved the relief of the summit.  A huge and vocal crowd at the top encouraged me to throw caution to the wind on the final descent and I duly responded, lifting my head from its stooped position and focusing on the narrow strip of rocky track ahead.  As with the previous descent I began well, immediately gaining a place but unfortunately another facet of that previous descent then took hold with the worst bout of cramp yet.  This time finding a comfortable stride proved near impossible and I had to ease off and simply see it through whilst frustratingly losing more distance and time.  As before, the contracting muscles ceased their most noticeable complaints after a few minutes and I was able to focus on the task of finishing with a bit of pace and pride.  This last drop proved to be a highlight as although the cramp had robbed me of the chance to gain many places I was absolutely flying for the last five kilometers.  I passed a Ukranian after a short tousle and then flew past a Japanese athlete as if they weren’t moving before fixing my gaze on the Dane about 200m ahead.  I was rapidly eating into his lead and having scoped this final kilometre I knew I’d be able to pass him shortly before the finish but a familiar tension was brewing in my calves and faced with the prospect of having to limp over the finish I gave up the doomed chase in order to finish in the style this race and my waiting family deserved.

Relief at crossing the line...

Sprinting down the picturesque final slope, adjacent to the Alpine stream and beautiful ornate water wheel towards an animated crowd lacked the emotion it deserved.  I was mentally and physically drained and craving the relief of the finish overrode any other feelings.  It was only after a few blissful minutes pouring water on my head, sat in the river and chatting to family and fellow athletes that the pride and satisfaction began to blossom.  I’d finished the race in 39^th place, first Irish finisher at 4:24:33.  It had been a monumental effort, exploring my physical and mental capabilities way beyond expectation for a course with those statistics.  I’d anticipated a tough day but am more than capable of covering 26 miles and 2800m of ascent and descent without ever requiring that degree of soul searching and gut wrenching.  Eoin crossed the line just under five minutes after me in 43^rd place; he too had suffered exceptionally, particularly given his undoubted and proven talent over greater distances than the Gorski Marathon route.

Soon turns to smiles!

I didn’t hang around long beyond a few thankyous and handshakes, we had a family holiday to commence and I had plenty of time to digest and analyse the race in the lengthy drive to Lake Garda where a chilled Belgian beer and a chilled Belgian friend awaited.

So what's the verdict?  Overall I'm pretty delighted, 39th is a big improvement on 81st at my last World Long Distance Champs in Colorado two years ago.  Even more satisfying is the fact that this was only my second ever marathon distance race and experience and miles in the legs count for a lot over longer distances.  I was only four minutes off the top 30 and twelve minutes off the top 20 in amongst some very classy athletes and I feel that with a bit more specific training I should be in that World's top 20, not bad for a 38 year old who's only been mountain running for five!  We spent the next three weeks enjoying the best of Italy during which I trained hard and discovered the only way to counteract that drained feeling is a constant flow of electrolytes rather than excess fluids to get past the sluggishness and unlock the underlying fitness.  I'll store that knowledge for next time.

Great Irish team relaxing post-race

Representing internationally is always a great experience and one that I’m immensely proud to do.  I came to mountain running relatively recently and so reaching this level and being offered these opportunities is slightly bemusing at times.  Knowing the sacrifices I make in terms of diet and lifestyle whilst dragging out the motivation to train endlessly in often trying conditions makes me eternally appreciative that there are other like-minded people doing the same thing.  Without fellow athletes to compete against I’d never have the chance to push myself so hard and explore my own weaknesses so thoroughly.  The dark side of the mind is a difficult place to dwell but visiting occasionally is a powerful drug, enticing you to seek the next challenge and further discover the limits of your capabilities.  I can fully understand why athletes are compelled to continually push further and harder in search of their breaking points, who knows where it will take me next?

Huge thanks to my fellow Irish athletes Dan Doherty, Brian MacMahon and Eoin Lennon as well as our excellent team manager Leo Mahon who made the Worlds such an enjoyable experience. Thanks also to Gerry Brady and all at IMRA as well as the organizers of the Gorski Marathon and the WMRA.  It was an excellent event, really professionally run and as ever the World Federation looked after us well.  Time now to get back to the Mournes and prep for a big record attempt.

Massive thanks to IMRA who even got Anna added as a team official!