Avebury8 Nine, 2018

'There's no wind at all', I declaimed as I stood on the doorstep, 'it's cool and calm - definitely singlet weather'.  And so the lovely Mrs S and I headed off to Avebury, Mrs S with sensible race attire and me with minimal kit.  By the time we arrived the temperature outside was just 5 degrees and there was a brisk cold wind. I couldn't back down now - it was singlet or bust.

A chilly morning

But in the village hall there was warmth, noise and hearty bustle.  We didn't know anyone, and it was a bit much in there, so we hovered around the quieter but still warm porch.  Soon enough we were ushered to the start line on the other side of the village, which meant a nippy 10 minutes of bare shoulders trying to keep mobile.  A mercifully short briefing ('it's a trail race... there will be mud') and we were off.

I found myself in a front group of 8 which thinned down to 3 fairly quickly - me, Courtenay Chessell and David Warren.  For a while we were all dead level, but quite suddenly Courtenay seemed to switch a gear and took off.  There was a rutted steep downhill section on the side of Windmill Hill where David ran ahead of me, and then I overtook him... and the holding pattern was now set.

There was a long drag uphill, including a field of winter cereal where the wet soil clung in great lumps to my shoes (but was nothing like last year's comic quagmire), and then a long section downhill and through the hamlet of Yatebury, from where I was aware of David's persistent presence behind me.  A long rutted uphill drag and then downhill along a narrow footpath with dense vegetation on all sides.  A bramble caught against my leg. 'Ow', I yelled in surprise, immediately feeling like an eejit.

Back to Windmill Hill, where David ran decisively past me.  I couldn't hold him, but pushed o to the top of the hill and pushed on for the final descent and then over the multiple stile section back to the village.

There was no chance of reclaiming second place, but I was keen to finish in under an hour.  I heaved through the recreation ground to finish in third place in 59:08, 92 seconds faster than last year, albeit in dryer conditions.

I chatted to Courtenay and David, and got a few gasps from my leg, from which a few scratches had bled into a dramatic-looking injury.  I was urged to go and see the first aid man, but not before I had taken a photo.  Check this out.  Here are my stats.

It's only a flesh wound

Mrs S came home in 1:22, 16 whole minutes faster than last year, and was absolutely made up.  A very successful morning, and another splendid race from Marlborough RC; low-key, no-nonsense, good-humoured.

Souvenirs of a cracking race

Broadway marathon 2018

A cold, early start.  The lovely Mrs S and I had been staying in a hotel in Broadway village which was way more high-end and self-consciously elitist than we had been expecting, and it was quite a relief to get to the Broadway United Football Club HQ where lots of folk in running kit were pinning on race numbers in a noisy, hearty and steamed-up village hall.

The race director gave a droll briefing in which he assured us 'if you get lost, it'll be your fault.  We've put pink arrow signs everywhere', and warned us of dire consequences if we failed to shut gates and let livestock escape.

It's a cold one

Not as pretentious here as last night's hotel

We set off on the village green, ran up the high street and up the first of the hills.  We were less than a km in when the first inkling that the route might not be terribly obvious became apparent, when some of the runners started bearing off to the left.  Was there a sign?  Did you see it?  Me neither.  Onwards and upwards till I reached the Broadway Tower.

Up here it was thick mist.  The fast boys had all disappeared, and I was alone in the mist, looking around for a clue.  Nothing.  I dimly remembered seeing a photo from a previous year of runners passing in front of the tower, and used this to guess my bearing.  Two figures in hi-vis loomed in front of me, and I was back on course.

Remembering this scene was my only navigation clue

Not much visibility up here today

By now I had clocked the signs.  Well, honestly; they were little square jobs about the size of post-its.  You had to keep alert the whole time, and they were dead easy to miss.  Moreover, it wasn't terribly obvious precisely which way they were pointing in landscapes of multiple options.  With no one ahead of me, I took several wrong turns.  Each time, a guy in yellow caught me up and I spent the next ten minutes trying to get some distance before I got lost again.  It was infuriating.

But by now it was a glorious day.  The visibility and the landscape were fantastic.  There were little kissing gates, big field gates and stiles everywhere - I completely lost count of them.  I was feeling good and kept a steady pace as the halfway point led to the last of the big hills.  At this point I was working hard to put some space between me and matey in yellow, who had recently caught me up after a wonky bit of signage.  At the top of the hill I pass a bloke who told me he had under-estimated the toughness of the route and was struggling.

After some exciting technical downhill sections I was back in a hamlet (Wood Stanway) where I went quite badly wrong, turned round, retraced my steps and there was my yellow friend back to haunt me... but also to point me in the right direction.  Five minutes later we joined in with the half-marathoners and with plenty of folk ahead, wayfinding got a lot easier.

It was flatt-ish at this point, but we went through several fields of lytchett strips, and it felt like running over waves.  Among the half-marathon crowd I overtook someone who looked like a marathon runner and tried going up a gear, with quite a lot of shouted warnings as I approached stiles and a few dicey moments climbing over slippery wood.

The final downhill stretch involved one last wrong direction until I spotted a tiny square sign in a different corner of the field, only visible thanks to bright sunshine.  Then on to the road, into the outskirts of Broadway, and quite suddenly over the finish line, confusing me as I thought there were a few hundred metres left.

All over!  The man in yellow turned up a few seconds later - a nice guy called Neil.  Much as I dreaded seeing him on the course, I could have been in trouble without him.  Fifth place, and first M50, which I was very happy with.  Here are my stats.  And check out my duel with Neil. 

Beachy Head marathon, three weeks earlier, felt like a long time ago, and the training is a distant memory.  Today felt a bit cheeky, like I was just turning up without preparation.  But the three-week gap was perfect - a bonus marathon to make it a triple this year.

Remembrance 10k, 2018

There was a right old hoolie on Friday night and before bed we packed our stuff in anticipation of a thoroughly wet race Saturday AM.  But we awoke to bright skies and headed to Fort Nelson on Portsdown Hill, a venue neither of us had ever been to.  I was enthralled by the the military hardware on display outside (and apparently they have part of the fabled Iraqi supergun inside), but the lovely Mrs S was rather less keen.

Now that's what I call a cannon

We met up with Dave, Tony, Julia and Ian from OS and Kate and family from Hampshire Hares and headed off to the start line.  We've learned that the Rural Running guys do great races but often with an element of charming chaos about them.  Today there was no loudhailer or PA system and the 300 or so runners all struggled to hear Jeff's shouted instructions.  A wave of solemn quiet spread through the crowd, as if by osmosis, as the remembrance silence began.  Then the 5k race began (unbeknown to most of the throng, as few could hear, and I suspect that some may have missed it).  Eventually the message got through that we (the 10k runners) needed to be on the other side of the start gantry and there was a comic five minutes of inverting the fast/slow sequence in a tight road space.

There was a very brisk start, and I tried to be sensible about this.  A couple with huskies were doing a comedy seven-league boots trick as their dogs charged ahead.  Round a corner and up a long gentle drag; I gently pulled up the field until there were two guys a way ahead of me.  Round another bend, and I overtook one of them as we hit the first km marker.

The second km was entirely downhill.  It was quite hard work to maintain any kind of technique on a steep-ish slope that went on for ever.  What goes down must come up, I pondered, recalling stories at the start line of a fearsomely hilly final section.  That second km went by in a tidy 3:13, but matey was a good way ahead of me.  But by the 3k marker I was thinking that maybe the gap was not widening.  By 4k I was clearly narrowing the gap.  We had two (and for me unexpected) dog-leg sections after this.  After the first dog-leg there was a water station, and matey (George, according to Strava, of which more later) stopped for a drink at there was I, halfway through, in pole position.

I was uncomfortable about this.  I like to have my enemies where I can see them, and pick them off.  It's not much fun to be competing against an unknown foe, or foes, who have paced better than you have and pick you off in the dying metres (what I call doing a Finch).  I had no choice here but to keep the pressure on and hope for the best.

The bulk of Portsdown Hill loomed ahead and I could just make out the top section of Nelson's Monument, which was next to the start and finish line.  The hill began, I started overtaking the tail end of the 5k race (plenty of breathless well dones) and I kept imagining the sound of footsteps behind me. Onward, upwards and I hit the finish line in first place!

Nelson's Monument

Now, the quality of the field was not terribly high.  It was a million miles from the savage competition of the Hants XC league or the fast runners of the RR10s.  No epic struggles with my old mate Gerry (a la Wickham 10k).  But I was thrilled to bag the trophy on a super course on a beautiful morning.

My time was 39:30.  Here are my Garmin and Strava stats. And check out the race between me and George on Strava flyby - great fun.

Greatly looking forward to the Broadway marathon next Sunday!

The Stinger 2018

I've been looking forward to this race.  I've previously run it in 2015 and 2017, and I really enjoy its understated, no-nonsense approach and the opportunity for a good charge around cross-country New Forest course.

It was a mild, damp morning.  The Lovely Mrs S and I arrived in good time in persistent drizzle that was trying to turn into proper rain.  We said hello to lots of faces from local running clubs, and took off the layers as late as we dared - the feeling of light rain on bare shoulders is not the loveliest sensation.  We gathered on a wide open piece of Stony Cross plain, 5-milers and 10-milers alike, and we were off after a slightly fluffed air horn blast.

We seem to get a lot of race welcomes that l;ook like this

With the Hampshire Hares gang

The first km was largely downhill.  I was trying to be sensible, but found myself in second place quite quickly, and by the time we went under the A31 I was running with Neil Jennings, James Battle and another lad, all of whom were running the 5.  They peeled left shortly afterwards and I was on my own.

Well, sort-of.  I could hear the marshals calling encouragement behind me, and then I started hearing footsteps that gradually got louder.  I'm not keen on setting a leading pace from the start (I'd much rather chase than be chased) and about halfway around I was overtaken by a tall guy.  It was Daniel Campion from Lordshill, who won the half-marathon race last year (no HM this year, though).  He pushed ahead at an ambitious pace and there was no chance of keeping up with him.

There was a great mix of all kinds of surface, some testing long drags uphill and exhilarating downs.  Soon enough I was back on the return trail, passing some of the 5-mile runners with lots of cheery encouragement.

The finish took a different route this year.  Mrs S and I had checked out the final approach, and this year there was a really sharp 10-metre slope right at the end.  The 500m to the finish had countdown signs every 100m, and the course just got steeper and steeper, but the encouragement grew louder. Mrs S, who'd had a cracking run too, was shouting at me and I thought there might be someone on my tail, and it was a great lung-busting finish.  I heaved my way over the line in 1:05:24, my best time to date and it was a bit longer on this route too.  Second place - I'll take that.  Had Neil and James been running the 10-mile race, it might have been a different story. 

It's a zinger, the Stinger.

The spoils of war