Beachy Head marathon 2018

It felt like the dead of night when we got up at 5am, had a quick breakfast and left the house.  Both of us had kept waking up ahead of the alarm clock in anticipation.  As we drove eastwards, the sky gradually lightened, and dawn was just breaking as we reached Eastbourne.

It was a really cold morning, which felt a bit of a shock after a mild, almost balmy, October.  We managed to park surprisingly easily (but we were really lucky as the spaces were filling up quickly), wrapped up in multiple layers and joined the throngs headed for the start area.  There was a real buzz around the registration tent.

Bright and chilly in the start area

We went back to the car and got ourselves into running kit, enduring that unpleasant bit of taking off the nice warm layers and having to decide what to wear for the race.  Then back to the start.

Ready for anything

We were encouraged to get to the start line, with sub-5 hour runners to the front.  I was hoping for 3:30, and tried to get to a sensible position in the start order.  I really didn't get a sense of the size of the field - there were over 2000 of us.  The Lovely Mrs S was running the 10k, so she was able to get some photos of the start, which was at the end of a road facing straight onto a steep section of rutted trail.  The first 500m or so was an unforgiving scramble, heart, legs and lungs all trying to adjust to this outrageous start.

15 minutes to go... no sense yet that 2200 runners are about to start

Off we go!  I'm the orange head in the middle of the picture

I had been quite nervous about this race, having had a few interruptions on the way (including a sore Achilles and a cold) and less long distance and hill training than I would have liked.  I had been studying the course profile and steeled myself for some epic hills in the first half, with the consolation of much gentler terrain in the second half.

The second half is a doddle, surely

But all those monstrous-looking hills were in factfine; long drags which allow you to get into a good rhythm and just keep going.  The visibility was fantastic, and the landscape just got better and better.  I felt strong and was loving it. The villages of Jevington and Alfriston had lots of folk out cheering, and the latter had my first encounter with the Cuckmere valley.  We hit a high point at about 19k and from this point there was a steady, fast descent on grass and then on a track.  I caught a few people, and started to be aware of a general aching feeling through my legs shortly before passing the halfway point in about 1:41.

Then back into the Cuckmere valley and it felt like a different kind of race.  We were routed up and down short, sharp little slopes in woodland around Westdean, with steps that confounded any kind of running pace and forced me to walk for a couple of sections.  I nearly came to grief on a tree root, but staggered onwards, over a wall and back downhill to the meandering Cuckmere.

Now for the Seven Sisters, those little hills of the second half.  Oh my goodness, they were tough, each one around 50m in elevation but really steep both up and down.  I lost count of them, but they went on and on.  I managed to overtake a few more folk, but I became increasingly aware of the tingling feeling in my hands that tells me when I'm getting tired.

Then a final long hill up to Beachy Head and the last 2km was downhill.  I struggled onwards, frustrated that I couldn't move as fast as I normally would.  Eastbourne came into sight, and my watch was telling me that there was less than a km to go. 

And suddenly I was staring down the final hill at the finish gantry, sooner than I expected.  My legs were spent, and it took all my concentration to stay upright on the ruts and concrete steps that led to the finish line.  I heard Mrs S shouting at me, and everything felt a bit fuzzy as I crossed the finish line.

Somehow staying on my feet

Done for

My split time was 3:25:44, and I finished in 22nd place, 2nd M50.  Here are my Garmin and Strava stats.  An absolutely marvellous day out!

Blenheim Rotary 10k 2018

Another Sunday morning up early and heading up the A34 for a race.  This was a return to the fabulous Blenheim Palace for the Rotary 10k.  The lovely Mrs S had switched to the 5k race as a comeback from a hip injury, and it was our first combined race outing for a while.

On the journey the skies were getting brighter after a misty start until some point in Oxfordshire where we hit a wall of fog.  The Blenheim grounds were wreathed in grey as we parked the car and met with with Jo and Ali, two of the Hampshire Hares out for their second-ever race.

The Hares on tour

The Rotary team running the event were priceless.  There were four old chaps in a commentary booth, with one of them gently and sonorously describing every step of the two courses, while the ladies cheerfully manned the registration desk. 

There was a common start for both the 5k and 10k races.  Charmingly, sub 45-minute 10 and sub-30 5k runners were classed as 'elite' and invited to the front.  We set off with a bunch of young children racing out ahead and quickly falling back, as I tried to find a sustainable pace.

The fog was now rapidly clearing and I was really njoying the views of the grounds - I don't remember doing this last year.  At about 3km there was a dog-leg approach to the baroque palace front, and a few of the runners ahead peeled off to the left to do the 5k.  There were now just a few ahead of me.

I was all on my own for the rest of the race.  I felt happy with my pace, I loved the course, and I finished in 4th place in 38:19, over 30 seconds up on last year, albeit in perfect windless conditions.  Here are my stats.  We had to wait forever for the prizegiving (I got the M50), which was a comically hapless (and slightly infuriating) affair... 'Right, now we'll do the men's results.  Oh Roger, that's the wrong bit of paper, that's not right.  I think Fred has the right bit of paper, but Fred seems to have disappeared.  Where's Fred?'  Mrs S, Jo and Ali had all enjoyed their races.  This is a quirky and delightful event that's becoming established as a regular outing.  See you in 2019.

Lost, lost and thrice lost: Chase Half 2018

To get lost once during a race may be regarded as a misfortune, but to be lost three times looks like carelessness.  This was certainly one of the oddest experiences I've ever had in a race.

The day began wet and windy.  The lovely Mrs S and I headed westwards into Dorset, with strong echoes of July's Invader race.  We arrived in Sixpenny Handley in steady rain and ended up in a dismal car park field, muttering what-are-we-doing-here and whose-idea-was-this sentiments.

Plucking up the courage to get out of the car

We were led to the start line on narrow lane, and advised to take a right turn on to a track after about 500m.  We set off, and I quickly found myself in third place.  The two guys in front started looking around for a turn after a minute or two, and a full kilometre in it was clear to all of us that something had gone wrong.  Everyone stopped and looked around in confusion, before turning around.  At this point a car turned up and a man confirmed that we had missed the turning.  The first shall be last and the last shall be first... for the return road section we all did a tricky inversion procedure to restore the original running order.

At the start line

After a section of slippery chalk path and a length of road we were into the countryside proper and climbing up to the ridge that would be the centrepiece of the race.  I found myself behind Jon from Torbay Tri.  We shared snatches of conversation as we struggled to open metal foot gates between fields (we had to climb over one).  Through a really interesting technical bit of woodland with lots of of low overhanging branches - swerving and heads bobbing up and down furiously - and then we were out on the ridge.  I caught up level with Jon on a tarmac stretch just as we approached a photographer.

Jon and I in joint lead

We progressed on to tractor ruts with plenty of splashy puddles and I found myself pulling ahead.  The rain had eased off and far off to my left was a band of bright sunshine.  The landscape and scenery were tremendous.

I took the turn off the ridge and down a steepish slope over tussocky grass and then scrubby woodland, emerging on a road just outside Berwick St John.  A marshal directed me off the road and up a wooded track.  There was a n unsigned fork in the track; keep straight or bend to the right.  I went straight.  The track became progressively more brambly and nettly, and I emerged into an open field.  I stopped and stared, and Jon emerged behind me.  We despaired for a bit.  I did a recce to the far end of the field, but seeing no signs I returned.  There were four of us by this stage.  We went back to the fork and took the alternative route.  I was quite wound up by this stage and went busting up the hill, overtaking a couple of others, and emerged from the woods back in pole position.

I started breathing easier now, confident of my way home.  I kept the pressure on, feeling good, and enjoyed greeting the tail end runners on their way out.  Back through the puddles, the hanging branches, the metal gates and on to the road.  I was enjoying myself and anticipating a dash to the finish.

The road section was a bit longer than I thought it would be, but I saw a couple of yellow signs and carried on.  Then I was in Sixpenny Handley, and I was momentarily confused until I saw a figure in a yellow jacket a way ahead.  I gunned on, but approaching him realised it was just someone out and about wearing hi-viz.  My heart sank.  'Where's the village hall?' I cried.  'I think it's up that hill' came the reply.

Farcical moment number three.  I recognised the way we'd driven in that morning, and turned off the road, sought signs and spent a minute or two rushing around a campsite bellowing 'WHICH WAY?'.  Someone pointed me to a path, and shortly after I spotted a flash of orange rushing past from my right - it was Jon.  I pelted after him but couldn't catch him ahead of the finish line.

It was a really unsatisfactory end.  Jon and I had a little tussle about placing, both arguing that the other deserved first place.  Then a White Star lady came along and said she'd put me at the top of the results sheet, and I walked away with the trophy, feeling rather complicated about the whole thing.  How could I get first place when I had been beaten to the line?

Did that really just happen? Clutching prizes that I only had a partial claim to

So for what they're worth, here are the results.  I ended up running 25.5km, just a few hundred metres shy of last week's metric marathon.  For some entertainment, check out the flyby animation. 

What a strange experience.  I was really struck by the mental confusion that results from being lost in a race; my mind was three times cast in turmoil and it took me some time to calm down and relax afterwards.  A day or two later I learned that some guy had suffered a heart attack just a mile from the start, which put a few missing signs into perspective, but the course was lovely and I'd love to do this again, with a bit less drama.

Chester metric marathon 2018

What on earth is a metric marathon? I hear you cry.  It's 26.2km, or about 10 miles short of a full marathon.  The lovely Mrs S and I were both originally down to run the full monty, but Mrs S in in injury rest-up mode, and I was a bit fearful of the impact of a road marathon just 3 weeks before Beachy Head.  So it was just me, running a new distance in a new part of the world.  What's a good result for 26.2km?  I figured I would be happy with anything under 1:50.

Chester is really extraordinarily lovely.  We drove north through rain on the Saturday and emerged into this beautiful city in golden autumn sunlight.

Central Chester

Sunday started off chilly.  We got to the racecourse in good time and enjoyed generally fooling around before the start.

They cater for the larger clientele here

The marathon runners had set off ahead of the metric marathon.  It was all very laid back and unhurried at the start, with laconic commentary.  You wouldn't have guessed that this was a race of 1000 entrants.  There were about a dozen super-keen blokes on the start line, and I hung back a little behind them.  The local town crier did his Oh Yea thing and shouted out his assertion that a metric marathon is tougher than an imperial marathon because you are not allowed to use feet.  Very droll.

Off we went, over the hill of central Chester and then heading due south.  I reckoned I was in roughly 20th place.  By now it had warmed up and it was mild with a light southerly breeze (mental note - that'll be a help on the return leg).  I found myself next to a guy in a West Cheshire vest, and asked him what time he was hoping for.  One hour fifty-something, he replied, and then glided gently ahead of me.  I think you're going off too fast, pal, I thought.

The terrain was gently undulating and I felt OK.  It was an out-and-back course and I vaguely wondered when I would encounter the lead runners on their homeward leg.  They there were at 9.5km, nearly 4km before the turn.  I couldn't believe it.  As more runners came piling back, it dawned on me that these were the marathon runners on their way home.  They had almost identical numbers on and it was impossible to tell which race everyone was in.  I heard a voice shouting 'Stileman, you bugger'.  It was Andrew Trigg, my old colleague and racing rival (it was Andrew's marathon time that I failed to beat in London earlier this year).

I went around the turn and headed north for home, enjoying the feeling of cruising past the marathon runners, some of whom were really starting to deteriorate in the later stages.  I passed Andrew, with a brief hello, and then overtook the West Cheshire bloke.  Approaching Chester, I kept the pressure on.  In to the old part of the city, down to the riverside and there was lots of noise from the spectators.  I took it up a gear and then really caned it, feeling exhilarated, on the racecourse and appproaching the finish line.

The relief of the finish line

My time was 1:46:39, which was very satisfactory.  Here are my stats.  A bloke approached me and asked me if I was 50-something.  Yes, I replied.  'You bastard', he exclaimed, with proper northern vowels, 'you came sprinting past me in the last mile'.  This was my second-favourite moment of the weekend (the absolute highlight was the teenage waiter in the hotel the night before who dropped a fork from the plates he was carrying and kicked it several times out of the door and down the passageway... priceless).  First M50!  Sorry Chris Yorke - better luck next time.