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.