2013 Ring of Fire 135 mile ultra race report
I started writing this report two days after the
finish of the race. Yesterday I went to work in a suit, sports sandals
and socks -which is a great look - and I was able to walk at about 0.3
miles an hour. Today I have progressed to desert boots and I'm fairly
sprinting along at 0.5 miles an hour. Let's just say that my blisters
are talking a long time to heal...I will put up with that legacy though,
as the price of finishing this epic race.
The Ring of Fire is a 3 day running race around the coastal path in Anglesey. You start in Holyhead and run 135 miles clockwise around the island until you get back to where you started. Easy eh? No.
This new race came on to my horizon some time in 2012 and as I looked at the website and subsequent race reports I became intrigued. At the inaugural running of the race lats year there were 100 entries, 68 starters and 28 finishers and even the DNF race reports read like epic victories. It was quite clear that anyone contemplating the race would need to plan on serious training, unwavering focus and limitless perseverance. I, on the other hand, usually aim to get by on charm, blagging, minimal training and if it get's too hard I simply give up: The race is clearly no place for an old t*osser like me who doesn't even like running.
So, ever the contrarian, pretty much as soon as entries opened, I entered and got straight down to training by forgetting about it for a while.
After a pleasant few weeks of not so much avoiding the elephant in the room as disbelieving that elephants even exist,I started to creak into some training. An ongoing neck / shoulder injury meant that my biking was restricted, I never swim anyway - even when a tri is imminent - so I really had no excuse not to run.
Miraculously, I rather took to it. I got a structured plan. I stuck to it. I did long runs, short runs, fartlek runs, back to backs. I went to a track. I discovered that a Yasso 800 isn't actually a motorcycle. I did the Manchester marathon in 3.37, just one minute off my marathon PB of 4 years ago. I ran the White to Dark Peak trail through knee deep snow. I bought a foam roller and even used it. In April I did a recce run of the second half of Day 2 of the race from Beaumaris to Aberffraw with Carlito, Smitters and Internal Cake Engine. It was a very pleasant day out which gave some helpful navigation tips which I singularly failed to recall when I needed them, tired and broken during the actual race.
Through May June and July my run mileage was never less than 50 miles a week and sometimes 80: this was truly mammoth stuff for a committed slacker. What could possibly go wrong?
At the end of June I did the Lightning Run 12 hour race as a solo. I did this self supported so I was reasonably happy with about 50 miles in a bit over 11 hours. I probably should have gone out for another lap but meh, whatever.
At the end of July my nemesis arrived in the shape of the Adidas Thunder Run. This is 24 hour race which attracts a big field with loads of teams and quite a party vibe. It's a bit like Glastonbury without the music, drugs and geography teachers. In this instance I was entered in the mixed pairs category with Carole, (Mrs.R) and I was looking forward to another big training run - albeit in segments - which I figured would be great RoF training. The race was great fun, camping next to Martin P and family and Carole set off on the first lap in blazing sunshine, returning after 10k complaining that it was way too hot. Thanks for that: by mid evening there was torrential rain which continued until dawn. The course became an absolute quagmire with treacherous roots, shoe sucking mud and off camber slides. Perfect conditions for giving your achillies a right buggering. Which I obviously did.
Strangely I didn't feel it go, but progressively during the race it got more and more painful and by the end it was very sore. We did still manage to finish about half way in the mixed pairs category though
The next day I was in real pain and extremely grumpy. I know that Achillies injuries can take ages to heal (heel?) and I could see my months of consistent training going down the crapper. Walking was very problematic and running was out of the question. However, with my new found application to doing the right thing I booked an appointment with the Physio rather than going to the pub. His diagnosis was ”extreme achillies twangy thing resulting in lumps on the wotsit and no running for 12 weeks” At least I think that's what he said: I was still thinking about why I wasn't in the pub.
I left with a sheet of strengthening exercises, some tubi-grip, acupuncture holes in my leg and some instructions involving ice, but strangely no gin and tonic. I had actually hoped for a pill that would simply fix everything but it seems that you have to work at this recovery thing as well.
Over the next 3 weeks I had another 5 sessions and each time I felt a bit better. After a couple of weeks I tried a cautious 5 miler: weirdly the leg was fine when I was running but hurt when I stopped. I tried not to stop. I did more exercises and in the absence of training I bought more gear, which is actually more important anyway. I had my last session a week before the race and committed to being on the starting line whatever happened. If the achillies wasn't playing ball I could always just stop, and it's great to have a genuine sandbagging injury excuse before any race.
As it played out I had no achillies problems during the race and I can only thank Bob Johnson at City Physio in Manchester for this: he is highly recommended if you are in the Manchester area.
I had the two weeks ahead of the race booked off work and this would have been an ideal time to taper, relax and generally chill before this epic adventure. We decided to move house instead, moving from a modern, warm, comfortable house that we have carefully extended and got perfect over the past 7 years to a dilapidated shack with an old bath in the garden that used to be a kennels and smells of cat wee. Even with a removals company the move was back breaking work for several days including three days in the attic alone bringing down those old bike tyres, frames and other crap that I just might need one day. If Shimano Deore U brakes suddenly become hard currency in some dystopian future for example.
So, as well as an aching achillies I managed to accumulate some crippling back pain during the move out. Obviously I could rest this once we moved in to the new place, well at least I could have done if I didn't have to spend another 3 days when we moved in ripping up a bedroom floor, scooping out soiled cat litter, builders rubble and unspecified human detritus from between the floor joists. And then relaying the floor. And then sanding it. Which was all great for the back.
Some pre race relaxation:
I promised myself at least one days rest before the race but obviously that didn't happen as that was the day that Grom (Polish Special Forces) arrived down from Edinburgh to stay with us ahead of driving to the race on Friday. Inevitably we spent the afternoon farting around Tesco and outdoor shops buying crap which we wouldn't need. We did of course fail to buy the walking poles that were on special offer and would have been much more use than 4kg of jelly babies. Although thinking about it, we could have tried animating the jelly babies into real beings to carry us around the course, Gulliver's Travels style. Next time maybe.
We rounded off the day with some light stretching, yoga, and zen meditation to centre ourselves ahead of the challenge ahead. By which I mean to say that we went to the pub, ate big steaks, drank Crabbies and made a very cursory glance at the map to realise that it was just a load of lines and weird symbols and we would probably be following someone anyway.
On race day we set off bright and fairly breezy at 07.30 for Holyhead. The GPS in the car calculated the distance from home to be 131 miles which eerily was the original distance of the race before it crept up to 135. This felt like a good omen. Carole was along for the weekend with Daniel (9) and they were booked into a nice hotel in Caernarfon where they would be able to enjoy levels of comfort,television, broadband and feline freshness unavailable in our newly purchased home.
After a hearty Little Chef breakfast en route we arrived in good time at Breakwater Country Park in Holyhead at about 11.00, ahead of the race start at 13.00. A real coup by the race organisers meant that Prince William and, as it turned out, Kate were due to start the race so obviously security was a little tighter but we got through and sorted ready for the start. Registration done, waiver signed, overnight bags dropped, race kit on and we were good to go.
Thankfully the organisers wisely opted not to give a Royal a gun with so many commoners around, and at the appointed hour William rang a bell to start the race and we were off.
All the pre race chatter and strategising had been about taking it very easy on day one (36 miles) to leave plenty in the tank for day two (65 miles). Hilariously (after the fact) everyone else said that day three (34 miles) would be a breeze if you got there, nothing more than a victory lap. Hmmm.
From the gun I set into an easy pace running with Grom and Aaron as the course rolled out around Holyhead peninsula to the first check point at Alaw Bridge. We had been planning on a run / walk strategy from very early on and after 6 or 7 miles we were ready for a quick walk break, although to Grom and Aaron's annoyance, not until we had completed an exact 7 miles on the Garmin because I like doing things at specific times and distances.
Hmm: this race may not go to plan:
The rest of the stage rolled up and down a lot more with some epic sweeps down from the cliff tops down steep steps to beaches and back up again. The stepped climbs were very heavy going and sections of it felt very like the Jurassic coast race on the south coast.
It's a long way down:
And it always goes back up again somewhere:
Spirits remained reasonably high throughout though and we bobbed through the first Marathon in about 6 hours. I could feel a nail escaping on one of my prehensile toes but nothing too bad and I had a very slight hotspot on the ball of my right foot too but just a vague tingle at that point.
Damn you pebble beaches:
A few miles before the finish we bumped into another couple of runners who from the results I think must have been Chris and Mike. They had wisely just bobbed into the pub for a quick one and some fresh company livened up the last few miles as by then Grom was boring me as much as I was boring him. As we cut back into the last coastal stretch we bumped into a colourful fella from some as yet unreleased Mike Leigh film standing on the corner of a field with a can of lager in his pocket and insistent on giving directions. I think had we developed our friendship any longer the next phase would have involved his wife, some livestock, a car battery and a shotgun so we took his advice swiftly and left. It was now dark and I hadn't packed my head torch so I followed Grom, his torch and his soon to be toxic backside around the final mile into the overnight stop at Amlwch Leisure Centre. A relaxed 8.19 for the stage.
The race entry fee includes overnight accommodation on days 1 and 2 and your overnight kit is transported for you so you can simply roll out a sleeping mat and bag and crash out in the hall. While most people did just this, there were several fully inflatable mattresses and even a complete bed, with slats, mattress and everything. I think that Aaron was disappointed that having found the bouncy castles there were no dodgems to go with them. Being a leisure centre this overnight was blessed with glorious hot showers which were very welcome and after some relaxing communal prison love action I dealt with the pus under my one escaping toe nail and got ready for dinner. Which turned out to be the last but very welcome hot food available in the canteen - walking back in to Amlwch to the Chinese was not an option:
Aaron hides his disappointment at not getting a Happy Meal:
After getting some kit ready for the next day I retired to bed around midnight for a rather uncomfortable but nonetheless welcome 4 hours sleep.
After reveille care of Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire to wake everyone up, Day 2 commenced with some light faffing, two pots of instant porridge and a final check of kit in my drop bag which would be taken to the half way point at Beaumaris at mile 33. After a quick briefing day 2 started outside the leisure centre at 06.00 And by 06.05 we were lost, thankfully only briefly as we spotted the rest of the field disappearing in the other direction.
On day 1 I had worn a pair of box fresh Salomon Speedcross which are my favourite shoes, and although I hadn't yet had any grumbles from my achillies I was worried that the cumulative pounding on day 2 could be risky. I therefore elected to start day 2 in my Hokas -which give an extremely well cushioned ride - with some regular shoes in my drop bag for a change at half way if required. This may or may not have been a good decision....
The first 18 miles of day 2 up to CP3 at Penmon went pretty well but the combination of contouring clockwise around the path with my flappy-out right foot upwards and the height of the Hokas did something weird to my feet. I fairly quickly developed a big blister on the outside of my right heel followed soon afterwards by one under the ball of my left foot. Mild discomfort soon ramped up towards very painful.
There were some great sections after this though, aided by liberal and inadvisably high doses of Diclofenac and Ibuprofen. On the long beach section towards Llandona Grom and I got into a great run walk routine banking 1 walk step for every run step. This gave us a great structure and allowed us to make good time until we hit the Llandona diversion up the very steep road where we bumped into Chris and Mike again along with Bristol Rikki, and Gerallt who we quickly christened Ghost Boy for his ability to disappear for a mile or two and then suddenly loom up again. Feet battered, but spirits still good.
Carole was waiting at Penmon (CP3) and fixed us up a very welcome cup of tea and bacon sandwich before we headed off again towards Beaumaris. This section involved a very long and highly tedious pebble beach section which was painfully slow going and really put my feet through the blender.
At the half way point on the roadside in Beaumaris I picked up my drop bag and as planned took some time out to change into night clothes and attempt some foot maintenance. I now had 5 or 6 assorted blisters so I drained what I could and wrapped everything else in tape. Unfortunately the worst ones were under the thick skin on the balls of my feet behind my toes and draining them was simply not possible. It was pretty clear by now that our pace was tumbling and a finish after midnight seemed certain. I grabbed my head torch from my drop bag but foolishly left my warm base layer because I couldn't stuff it into my pack. Having to rely on just a waterproof shell for additional warmth later wasn't ideal.
As we ran into Menai Bridge we realised that the crowds in the streets weren't actually for our arrival but for the annual seafood festival which was just wrapping up for the day. We were disappointed to have missed the face painting, as ending day two made up as a tiger would have been great. In the absence of any lobsters to eat on the hoof, we pressed on.
Sometime after here I had my first major blister explosion and I had to sit down on a wall and sulk for a few minutes while Grom laughed and Ghost Boy circled spectrally. I was now definitely ready to jack it in but also couldn't be arsed to go through the effort of ringing for a lift and pulling out. We carried on.
Much of the rest of the stage up to Newborough is blur. My moans per minute went up as quick as my speed went down as Grom will no doubt testify. We got some brief respite at the Sea Zoo where Carole had arranged to meet us with a smorgasbord of delights including hot noodles, tea, choclate pancakes, pork pies and Ginsters steak slices. This was all very welcome and we left scoffing down everything we could, and I stashed a Ginsters for later.
By now we were down to a not so merry band of 3 and as darkness fell we found ourselves on the sandy approach road to Newborough. After a mile or two bumbling we saw some head torches behind us and astonishingly they appeared to be running. It turns out that it was one of the Welsh boys we had bumped into on day one who had picked up a couple of pacers at the Sea Zoo. Again some fresh company lifted the mood for a bit and they even made us run for a while. Better still some local knowledge helped the navigation around the peninsula but everyone was trudging again as we hit the next village. Amazingly I remembered the hidden left turn next to the pub.
The last stages were pretty desperate as we resigned ourselves to a 20hr+ finish. It involved some horribly lumpy terrain and some confusion about whether the reflected red eyes ahead of us belonged to big sheep or small cows. I do remember Grom resigning himself to a passive role in any imminent inter-species sexual encounter.
Arriving into the village hall itself was just about as far from a restorative tonic as you can get, despite the great efforts of the RoF team to look after us. I was exhausted, in agony, mentally desolate and suffused with a profound sense of futility. There was no way I could walk on these feet tomorrow, and even if I could why? To finish a race nearly last?
Race organiser Q put a bowl of pasta into my hand and I blankly scarfed down some flapjack off an adjacent table. The main hall was already full (with runners who had already had several hours sleep...) so we were billeted in a school classroom 50 yards up the road. Q kindly carried my overnight bag up for me (I couldn't lift it) and I threw out the bare minimum of what I would need to sleep and chucked my phone and Garmin onto charge. Grom had already made the symbolic gesture of not charging his Garmin as a sign that he would not be starting day 3.
I was still cold and unable to change so I simply crawled into my sleeping bag in my full race kit. Minus shoes, obviously.The classroom that we were staying in had no toilets or water, so I did what I could with my feet, washing them in the dregs of water left in my bottle and hoping that two hours in a fetid sleeping bag would offer some improvement on 20 hours marinaded inside pus drenched socks.
I wasn't the freshest when I woke up, that being just about 2 hours after I went to bed an' all. I lay in my sleeping bag listening to other runners getting up and starting their pre race prep. I lay there some more, trying to kill myself through the power of thought alone. It didn't work. Grom started making noises. They may have been words, and they my have been something to do with wanting to give day 3 a crack. This stirred me up a notch from utter torpor to extreme sloth and I shed my down cocoon to look at my feet. They were still vile and agonising but I had some tape and compeed to hand and did what I could with them.
By now it was about 5.50 and I had just about managed to throw a few snacks into my pack and fill a bottle but hadn't had any breakfast. I found a plate of mars bars at registration and had two of them in the absence of anything else. Confectionary: the cornerstone of every nutritious breakfast.
Outside I saw Maca Lad and Carlito looking fresh as daisies and ICE looking if not floral, a lot better than me. At 06.00 we were off again and I settled into a brisk walk hoping to pound the blisters under the balls of my feet into submission. Needless to say they didn't give up, and a falsely optimistic first 2 or 3 miles quickly sunk into despair as we rounded the coastal beaches towards the first check point at Rhosneigr, at mile 7. I was feeling really low at this point while Grom seemed positively recharged as he crept further and further away from me, stopping every so often to try and gee me up. I wasn't really having any of it and even the lure of a bacon sandwich at the CP couldn't drag me on. I was by now acutely aware of the cut off times catching up with me: even with a generous 3.2mph average allowed for the day, this meant moving at < 20 minute miles and my hobbling shuffle simply wasn't making this pace. I think we got to the Rhosneigr CP with less than 20 minutes to spare and I could only see it getting worse.
Which it of course did. Leaving Rhosneigr we made a detour across the end of an airfield (RAF Valley) before rounding the coast again to emerge at the other end of Valley. This part of the course was probably my absolute nadir: a blank eyed trudge across a featureless ribbon of gorse shrubs and Tarmac with just a crap in a bush to interrupt my near catatonic state.
The next bit up to CP2 at Four Mile Bridge (mile 14) is a bit of a blur but it was somewhere along here that Grom lost it. We could both see the cut off chasing us over the horizon and I think Grom had simply had enough of it. About a mile away from the CP I calculated that if I lurched into a jog I would just about make it and Grom urged me on. I tried to get him to come with me but he was being a stubborn git and wasn't having any of it. I lumbered on up the road and made the CP with about 6 or 7 minutes to spare and as it happened Grom made it in too but immediately sat down in the Chair of Defeat while I filled my pockets with Haribo, sausage rolls and a fresh supply of Ibuprofen. Having covered 115 miles with him so far I really didn't want to leave Grom (I was hoping that he might be able to give me a piggy back later on) but he was adamant.
I was now on my own, virtually dead last on the course with 20 miles to go and the cut off catching me. Pressing on seemed completely futile and my game plan as I left was simply to get to the next area of civilisation, certain that this would be past the point of no return, find a grassy verge somewhere and throw the towel in. I now had agonising blisters on the balls of both feet, both heels and a few toes. But it was kind of sunny and I was still breathing and upright. I plodded on. 2 miles at > 20mm meant that the cut off was now in view over my shoulder, dark and ugly, it's sulphurous breath whispering entreaties to quit.
And then I remembered something. My iPod in my pocket...I had spent 115 miles talking crap to people and 0 miles listening to music which is what I normally do when I run. I chose carefully...The Manics' Postcards from a Young Man: familiar, anthemic and defiant: I will not give up and I will not give in...
I jogged a few steps. I remembered Martin P's text from earlier: ”embrace the pain” Embraced it? I slipped Rohypnol in it's drink and took it round the back of the bike sheds. I jogged a few more steps and walked some more. The Garmin beeped. An 18 minute mile, holy crap! I'm flying!
And so it just about came back from the brink. I did a couple more 18s and even a cheeky pair of 14s, back to back no less. I got my map out to navigate as I was now on my own. I became slightly obsessed with not cutting the course in any way. I found the ”hidden book” under the flag on the beach at Silver Bay and took a page as requested to prove I had been there.
The approach down the road and around the front into CP3 at Treaddur Bay was fantastic. I knew I had made up some time and I breezed through the CP as quickly as I could and climbed up the road back to the coastal path. There were plenty of sections here where the road went the direct route and the path took the longer route around the coast. I got bad and unfounded thoughts that other people might have chopped these bits off. I made sure that I didn't.
During one grassy ascent I felt the familiar sploosh and warm flood in my sock as a heel blister popped and the ensuing pain nudged me towards dealing with it rather than trudging on. As I sat on top of the hill trying to keep dirt out and compeed on I could see Holyhead mountain in the distance, a tangible end to this odyssey.It still looked a long way away but simply looking at it wouldn't make it come any closer.
Circumnavigating the ensuing headlands was both tedious but satisfying as I followed whatever looked like the most seaward path determined not to miss anything. My pace was now back in reasonable shape to make the cut off at 17.30 but as the hill up the road to the final 4 or 5 mile section took its toll, I knew there was no room for complacency. I retrieved the Ginsters slice from last night from my pack and scarfed it down for nutritional insurance.
FFS:
No really, FFS please make this stop:
The section from the South Stack to North Stack lighthouses and the subsequent climb up and over the mountain was a godforsaken death march:seemingly endless jagged steps, blister baiting boulder fields and when the final descent came it seemed virtually unrunnable even on fresh legs. The only salvation was the knowledge that I was now safely inside the cutoff and the final run into the finish was a mixture of euphoric high and the intensive relief that you might experience when someone stops whacking your feet with hammers.
Of those that finished I was nearly last but of the 94 starters there were 40 drop outs demonstrating just how hard this race is. I might have to have another go at it to quantify exactly why though: it's not the climbing, it's not particularly the distance or the micro terrain, but something in the combination of all three makes it a bit of a beast. What is personally rewarding for me aside from the finish itself is the knowledge that I was never in any danger of not finishing from fatigue or lack of fitness, only from my wretched glass feet and their pesky blisters. For once I had a really good base of training (up until the end of July at least) and on this occasion my challenges came from an unexpected direction. Time to re investigate those preventative taping strategies....
There is still something unresolved in my mind about these long endurance events. At the very blunt end of the field where I usually languish,a race like this isn't really a running race, it's more of an endurance test comprising long stretches of punishing tedium punctuated by fleeting highs. The medium for the pain could be running,or it could be repeatedly shutting your hand in a car door: the fleeting highs are briefer versions of those sweet spots you get on a shorter run where everything flows and you lock into something effortless. Somehow I need to shorten the car door bit and lengthen the effortless bit. I'll be working on it just as soon as I can walk properly again.
The Ring of Fire is without question a race which will quickly gain iconic status and deservedly so. It is a real challenge, organised by a great team and in a fantastic location. Thanks to Grom and everyone else for their company on the way round, to Bing, Q and the rest of the RoF team for a fabulous event and of course Carole for sending me a picture of a pizza while I was enduring some kind of hungry, dark , foot hell sometime on Saturday night.
Would I do this again? Hmm. In principle I would,but I now have 4 UTMB points with another possible 3 on offer if I can make it round the Winter 100. UTMB? now there's somewhere I would really be out of my league
The dirty traitors:
The Ring of Fire is a 3 day running race around the coastal path in Anglesey. You start in Holyhead and run 135 miles clockwise around the island until you get back to where you started. Easy eh? No.
This new race came on to my horizon some time in 2012 and as I looked at the website and subsequent race reports I became intrigued. At the inaugural running of the race lats year there were 100 entries, 68 starters and 28 finishers and even the DNF race reports read like epic victories. It was quite clear that anyone contemplating the race would need to plan on serious training, unwavering focus and limitless perseverance. I, on the other hand, usually aim to get by on charm, blagging, minimal training and if it get's too hard I simply give up: The race is clearly no place for an old t*osser like me who doesn't even like running.
So, ever the contrarian, pretty much as soon as entries opened, I entered and got straight down to training by forgetting about it for a while.
After a pleasant few weeks of not so much avoiding the elephant in the room as disbelieving that elephants even exist,I started to creak into some training. An ongoing neck / shoulder injury meant that my biking was restricted, I never swim anyway - even when a tri is imminent - so I really had no excuse not to run.
Miraculously, I rather took to it. I got a structured plan. I stuck to it. I did long runs, short runs, fartlek runs, back to backs. I went to a track. I discovered that a Yasso 800 isn't actually a motorcycle. I did the Manchester marathon in 3.37, just one minute off my marathon PB of 4 years ago. I ran the White to Dark Peak trail through knee deep snow. I bought a foam roller and even used it. In April I did a recce run of the second half of Day 2 of the race from Beaumaris to Aberffraw with Carlito, Smitters and Internal Cake Engine. It was a very pleasant day out which gave some helpful navigation tips which I singularly failed to recall when I needed them, tired and broken during the actual race.
Through May June and July my run mileage was never less than 50 miles a week and sometimes 80: this was truly mammoth stuff for a committed slacker. What could possibly go wrong?
At the end of June I did the Lightning Run 12 hour race as a solo. I did this self supported so I was reasonably happy with about 50 miles in a bit over 11 hours. I probably should have gone out for another lap but meh, whatever.
At the end of July my nemesis arrived in the shape of the Adidas Thunder Run. This is 24 hour race which attracts a big field with loads of teams and quite a party vibe. It's a bit like Glastonbury without the music, drugs and geography teachers. In this instance I was entered in the mixed pairs category with Carole, (Mrs.R) and I was looking forward to another big training run - albeit in segments - which I figured would be great RoF training. The race was great fun, camping next to Martin P and family and Carole set off on the first lap in blazing sunshine, returning after 10k complaining that it was way too hot. Thanks for that: by mid evening there was torrential rain which continued until dawn. The course became an absolute quagmire with treacherous roots, shoe sucking mud and off camber slides. Perfect conditions for giving your achillies a right buggering. Which I obviously did.
Strangely I didn't feel it go, but progressively during the race it got more and more painful and by the end it was very sore. We did still manage to finish about half way in the mixed pairs category though
The next day I was in real pain and extremely grumpy. I know that Achillies injuries can take ages to heal (heel?) and I could see my months of consistent training going down the crapper. Walking was very problematic and running was out of the question. However, with my new found application to doing the right thing I booked an appointment with the Physio rather than going to the pub. His diagnosis was ”extreme achillies twangy thing resulting in lumps on the wotsit and no running for 12 weeks” At least I think that's what he said: I was still thinking about why I wasn't in the pub.
I left with a sheet of strengthening exercises, some tubi-grip, acupuncture holes in my leg and some instructions involving ice, but strangely no gin and tonic. I had actually hoped for a pill that would simply fix everything but it seems that you have to work at this recovery thing as well.
Over the next 3 weeks I had another 5 sessions and each time I felt a bit better. After a couple of weeks I tried a cautious 5 miler: weirdly the leg was fine when I was running but hurt when I stopped. I tried not to stop. I did more exercises and in the absence of training I bought more gear, which is actually more important anyway. I had my last session a week before the race and committed to being on the starting line whatever happened. If the achillies wasn't playing ball I could always just stop, and it's great to have a genuine sandbagging injury excuse before any race.
As it played out I had no achillies problems during the race and I can only thank Bob Johnson at City Physio in Manchester for this: he is highly recommended if you are in the Manchester area.
I had the two weeks ahead of the race booked off work and this would have been an ideal time to taper, relax and generally chill before this epic adventure. We decided to move house instead, moving from a modern, warm, comfortable house that we have carefully extended and got perfect over the past 7 years to a dilapidated shack with an old bath in the garden that used to be a kennels and smells of cat wee. Even with a removals company the move was back breaking work for several days including three days in the attic alone bringing down those old bike tyres, frames and other crap that I just might need one day. If Shimano Deore U brakes suddenly become hard currency in some dystopian future for example.
So, as well as an aching achillies I managed to accumulate some crippling back pain during the move out. Obviously I could rest this once we moved in to the new place, well at least I could have done if I didn't have to spend another 3 days when we moved in ripping up a bedroom floor, scooping out soiled cat litter, builders rubble and unspecified human detritus from between the floor joists. And then relaying the floor. And then sanding it. Which was all great for the back.
Some pre race relaxation:
I promised myself at least one days rest before the race but obviously that didn't happen as that was the day that Grom (Polish Special Forces) arrived down from Edinburgh to stay with us ahead of driving to the race on Friday. Inevitably we spent the afternoon farting around Tesco and outdoor shops buying crap which we wouldn't need. We did of course fail to buy the walking poles that were on special offer and would have been much more use than 4kg of jelly babies. Although thinking about it, we could have tried animating the jelly babies into real beings to carry us around the course, Gulliver's Travels style. Next time maybe.
We rounded off the day with some light stretching, yoga, and zen meditation to centre ourselves ahead of the challenge ahead. By which I mean to say that we went to the pub, ate big steaks, drank Crabbies and made a very cursory glance at the map to realise that it was just a load of lines and weird symbols and we would probably be following someone anyway.
On race day we set off bright and fairly breezy at 07.30 for Holyhead. The GPS in the car calculated the distance from home to be 131 miles which eerily was the original distance of the race before it crept up to 135. This felt like a good omen. Carole was along for the weekend with Daniel (9) and they were booked into a nice hotel in Caernarfon where they would be able to enjoy levels of comfort,television, broadband and feline freshness unavailable in our newly purchased home.
After a hearty Little Chef breakfast en route we arrived in good time at Breakwater Country Park in Holyhead at about 11.00, ahead of the race start at 13.00. A real coup by the race organisers meant that Prince William and, as it turned out, Kate were due to start the race so obviously security was a little tighter but we got through and sorted ready for the start. Registration done, waiver signed, overnight bags dropped, race kit on and we were good to go.
Thankfully the organisers wisely opted not to give a Royal a gun with so many commoners around, and at the appointed hour William rang a bell to start the race and we were off.
All the pre race chatter and strategising had been about taking it very easy on day one (36 miles) to leave plenty in the tank for day two (65 miles). Hilariously (after the fact) everyone else said that day three (34 miles) would be a breeze if you got there, nothing more than a victory lap. Hmmm.
From the gun I set into an easy pace running with Grom and Aaron as the course rolled out around Holyhead peninsula to the first check point at Alaw Bridge. We had been planning on a run / walk strategy from very early on and after 6 or 7 miles we were ready for a quick walk break, although to Grom and Aaron's annoyance, not until we had completed an exact 7 miles on the Garmin because I like doing things at specific times and distances.
Hmm: this race may not go to plan:
The rest of the stage rolled up and down a lot more with some epic sweeps down from the cliff tops down steep steps to beaches and back up again. The stepped climbs were very heavy going and sections of it felt very like the Jurassic coast race on the south coast.
It's a long way down:
And it always goes back up again somewhere:
Spirits remained reasonably high throughout though and we bobbed through the first Marathon in about 6 hours. I could feel a nail escaping on one of my prehensile toes but nothing too bad and I had a very slight hotspot on the ball of my right foot too but just a vague tingle at that point.
Damn you pebble beaches:
A few miles before the finish we bumped into another couple of runners who from the results I think must have been Chris and Mike. They had wisely just bobbed into the pub for a quick one and some fresh company livened up the last few miles as by then Grom was boring me as much as I was boring him. As we cut back into the last coastal stretch we bumped into a colourful fella from some as yet unreleased Mike Leigh film standing on the corner of a field with a can of lager in his pocket and insistent on giving directions. I think had we developed our friendship any longer the next phase would have involved his wife, some livestock, a car battery and a shotgun so we took his advice swiftly and left. It was now dark and I hadn't packed my head torch so I followed Grom, his torch and his soon to be toxic backside around the final mile into the overnight stop at Amlwch Leisure Centre. A relaxed 8.19 for the stage.
The race entry fee includes overnight accommodation on days 1 and 2 and your overnight kit is transported for you so you can simply roll out a sleeping mat and bag and crash out in the hall. While most people did just this, there were several fully inflatable mattresses and even a complete bed, with slats, mattress and everything. I think that Aaron was disappointed that having found the bouncy castles there were no dodgems to go with them. Being a leisure centre this overnight was blessed with glorious hot showers which were very welcome and after some relaxing communal prison love action I dealt with the pus under my one escaping toe nail and got ready for dinner. Which turned out to be the last but very welcome hot food available in the canteen - walking back in to Amlwch to the Chinese was not an option:
Aaron hides his disappointment at not getting a Happy Meal:
After getting some kit ready for the next day I retired to bed around midnight for a rather uncomfortable but nonetheless welcome 4 hours sleep.
After reveille care of Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire to wake everyone up, Day 2 commenced with some light faffing, two pots of instant porridge and a final check of kit in my drop bag which would be taken to the half way point at Beaumaris at mile 33. After a quick briefing day 2 started outside the leisure centre at 06.00 And by 06.05 we were lost, thankfully only briefly as we spotted the rest of the field disappearing in the other direction.
On day 1 I had worn a pair of box fresh Salomon Speedcross which are my favourite shoes, and although I hadn't yet had any grumbles from my achillies I was worried that the cumulative pounding on day 2 could be risky. I therefore elected to start day 2 in my Hokas -which give an extremely well cushioned ride - with some regular shoes in my drop bag for a change at half way if required. This may or may not have been a good decision....
The first 18 miles of day 2 up to CP3 at Penmon went pretty well but the combination of contouring clockwise around the path with my flappy-out right foot upwards and the height of the Hokas did something weird to my feet. I fairly quickly developed a big blister on the outside of my right heel followed soon afterwards by one under the ball of my left foot. Mild discomfort soon ramped up towards very painful.
There were some great sections after this though, aided by liberal and inadvisably high doses of Diclofenac and Ibuprofen. On the long beach section towards Llandona Grom and I got into a great run walk routine banking 1 walk step for every run step. This gave us a great structure and allowed us to make good time until we hit the Llandona diversion up the very steep road where we bumped into Chris and Mike again along with Bristol Rikki, and Gerallt who we quickly christened Ghost Boy for his ability to disappear for a mile or two and then suddenly loom up again. Feet battered, but spirits still good.
Carole was waiting at Penmon (CP3) and fixed us up a very welcome cup of tea and bacon sandwich before we headed off again towards Beaumaris. This section involved a very long and highly tedious pebble beach section which was painfully slow going and really put my feet through the blender.
At the half way point on the roadside in Beaumaris I picked up my drop bag and as planned took some time out to change into night clothes and attempt some foot maintenance. I now had 5 or 6 assorted blisters so I drained what I could and wrapped everything else in tape. Unfortunately the worst ones were under the thick skin on the balls of my feet behind my toes and draining them was simply not possible. It was pretty clear by now that our pace was tumbling and a finish after midnight seemed certain. I grabbed my head torch from my drop bag but foolishly left my warm base layer because I couldn't stuff it into my pack. Having to rely on just a waterproof shell for additional warmth later wasn't ideal.
As we ran into Menai Bridge we realised that the crowds in the streets weren't actually for our arrival but for the annual seafood festival which was just wrapping up for the day. We were disappointed to have missed the face painting, as ending day two made up as a tiger would have been great. In the absence of any lobsters to eat on the hoof, we pressed on.
Sometime after here I had my first major blister explosion and I had to sit down on a wall and sulk for a few minutes while Grom laughed and Ghost Boy circled spectrally. I was now definitely ready to jack it in but also couldn't be arsed to go through the effort of ringing for a lift and pulling out. We carried on.
Much of the rest of the stage up to Newborough is blur. My moans per minute went up as quick as my speed went down as Grom will no doubt testify. We got some brief respite at the Sea Zoo where Carole had arranged to meet us with a smorgasbord of delights including hot noodles, tea, choclate pancakes, pork pies and Ginsters steak slices. This was all very welcome and we left scoffing down everything we could, and I stashed a Ginsters for later.
By now we were down to a not so merry band of 3 and as darkness fell we found ourselves on the sandy approach road to Newborough. After a mile or two bumbling we saw some head torches behind us and astonishingly they appeared to be running. It turns out that it was one of the Welsh boys we had bumped into on day one who had picked up a couple of pacers at the Sea Zoo. Again some fresh company lifted the mood for a bit and they even made us run for a while. Better still some local knowledge helped the navigation around the peninsula but everyone was trudging again as we hit the next village. Amazingly I remembered the hidden left turn next to the pub.
The last stages were pretty desperate as we resigned ourselves to a 20hr+ finish. It involved some horribly lumpy terrain and some confusion about whether the reflected red eyes ahead of us belonged to big sheep or small cows. I do remember Grom resigning himself to a passive role in any imminent inter-species sexual encounter.
Arriving into the village hall itself was just about as far from a restorative tonic as you can get, despite the great efforts of the RoF team to look after us. I was exhausted, in agony, mentally desolate and suffused with a profound sense of futility. There was no way I could walk on these feet tomorrow, and even if I could why? To finish a race nearly last?
Race organiser Q put a bowl of pasta into my hand and I blankly scarfed down some flapjack off an adjacent table. The main hall was already full (with runners who had already had several hours sleep...) so we were billeted in a school classroom 50 yards up the road. Q kindly carried my overnight bag up for me (I couldn't lift it) and I threw out the bare minimum of what I would need to sleep and chucked my phone and Garmin onto charge. Grom had already made the symbolic gesture of not charging his Garmin as a sign that he would not be starting day 3.
I was still cold and unable to change so I simply crawled into my sleeping bag in my full race kit. Minus shoes, obviously.The classroom that we were staying in had no toilets or water, so I did what I could with my feet, washing them in the dregs of water left in my bottle and hoping that two hours in a fetid sleeping bag would offer some improvement on 20 hours marinaded inside pus drenched socks.
I wasn't the freshest when I woke up, that being just about 2 hours after I went to bed an' all. I lay in my sleeping bag listening to other runners getting up and starting their pre race prep. I lay there some more, trying to kill myself through the power of thought alone. It didn't work. Grom started making noises. They may have been words, and they my have been something to do with wanting to give day 3 a crack. This stirred me up a notch from utter torpor to extreme sloth and I shed my down cocoon to look at my feet. They were still vile and agonising but I had some tape and compeed to hand and did what I could with them.
By now it was about 5.50 and I had just about managed to throw a few snacks into my pack and fill a bottle but hadn't had any breakfast. I found a plate of mars bars at registration and had two of them in the absence of anything else. Confectionary: the cornerstone of every nutritious breakfast.
Outside I saw Maca Lad and Carlito looking fresh as daisies and ICE looking if not floral, a lot better than me. At 06.00 we were off again and I settled into a brisk walk hoping to pound the blisters under the balls of my feet into submission. Needless to say they didn't give up, and a falsely optimistic first 2 or 3 miles quickly sunk into despair as we rounded the coastal beaches towards the first check point at Rhosneigr, at mile 7. I was feeling really low at this point while Grom seemed positively recharged as he crept further and further away from me, stopping every so often to try and gee me up. I wasn't really having any of it and even the lure of a bacon sandwich at the CP couldn't drag me on. I was by now acutely aware of the cut off times catching up with me: even with a generous 3.2mph average allowed for the day, this meant moving at < 20 minute miles and my hobbling shuffle simply wasn't making this pace. I think we got to the Rhosneigr CP with less than 20 minutes to spare and I could only see it getting worse.
Which it of course did. Leaving Rhosneigr we made a detour across the end of an airfield (RAF Valley) before rounding the coast again to emerge at the other end of Valley. This part of the course was probably my absolute nadir: a blank eyed trudge across a featureless ribbon of gorse shrubs and Tarmac with just a crap in a bush to interrupt my near catatonic state.
The next bit up to CP2 at Four Mile Bridge (mile 14) is a bit of a blur but it was somewhere along here that Grom lost it. We could both see the cut off chasing us over the horizon and I think Grom had simply had enough of it. About a mile away from the CP I calculated that if I lurched into a jog I would just about make it and Grom urged me on. I tried to get him to come with me but he was being a stubborn git and wasn't having any of it. I lumbered on up the road and made the CP with about 6 or 7 minutes to spare and as it happened Grom made it in too but immediately sat down in the Chair of Defeat while I filled my pockets with Haribo, sausage rolls and a fresh supply of Ibuprofen. Having covered 115 miles with him so far I really didn't want to leave Grom (I was hoping that he might be able to give me a piggy back later on) but he was adamant.
I was now on my own, virtually dead last on the course with 20 miles to go and the cut off catching me. Pressing on seemed completely futile and my game plan as I left was simply to get to the next area of civilisation, certain that this would be past the point of no return, find a grassy verge somewhere and throw the towel in. I now had agonising blisters on the balls of both feet, both heels and a few toes. But it was kind of sunny and I was still breathing and upright. I plodded on. 2 miles at > 20mm meant that the cut off was now in view over my shoulder, dark and ugly, it's sulphurous breath whispering entreaties to quit.
And then I remembered something. My iPod in my pocket...I had spent 115 miles talking crap to people and 0 miles listening to music which is what I normally do when I run. I chose carefully...The Manics' Postcards from a Young Man: familiar, anthemic and defiant: I will not give up and I will not give in...
I jogged a few steps. I remembered Martin P's text from earlier: ”embrace the pain” Embraced it? I slipped Rohypnol in it's drink and took it round the back of the bike sheds. I jogged a few more steps and walked some more. The Garmin beeped. An 18 minute mile, holy crap! I'm flying!
And so it just about came back from the brink. I did a couple more 18s and even a cheeky pair of 14s, back to back no less. I got my map out to navigate as I was now on my own. I became slightly obsessed with not cutting the course in any way. I found the ”hidden book” under the flag on the beach at Silver Bay and took a page as requested to prove I had been there.
The approach down the road and around the front into CP3 at Treaddur Bay was fantastic. I knew I had made up some time and I breezed through the CP as quickly as I could and climbed up the road back to the coastal path. There were plenty of sections here where the road went the direct route and the path took the longer route around the coast. I got bad and unfounded thoughts that other people might have chopped these bits off. I made sure that I didn't.
During one grassy ascent I felt the familiar sploosh and warm flood in my sock as a heel blister popped and the ensuing pain nudged me towards dealing with it rather than trudging on. As I sat on top of the hill trying to keep dirt out and compeed on I could see Holyhead mountain in the distance, a tangible end to this odyssey.It still looked a long way away but simply looking at it wouldn't make it come any closer.
Circumnavigating the ensuing headlands was both tedious but satisfying as I followed whatever looked like the most seaward path determined not to miss anything. My pace was now back in reasonable shape to make the cut off at 17.30 but as the hill up the road to the final 4 or 5 mile section took its toll, I knew there was no room for complacency. I retrieved the Ginsters slice from last night from my pack and scarfed it down for nutritional insurance.
FFS:
No really, FFS please make this stop:
The section from the South Stack to North Stack lighthouses and the subsequent climb up and over the mountain was a godforsaken death march:seemingly endless jagged steps, blister baiting boulder fields and when the final descent came it seemed virtually unrunnable even on fresh legs. The only salvation was the knowledge that I was now safely inside the cutoff and the final run into the finish was a mixture of euphoric high and the intensive relief that you might experience when someone stops whacking your feet with hammers.
Of those that finished I was nearly last but of the 94 starters there were 40 drop outs demonstrating just how hard this race is. I might have to have another go at it to quantify exactly why though: it's not the climbing, it's not particularly the distance or the micro terrain, but something in the combination of all three makes it a bit of a beast. What is personally rewarding for me aside from the finish itself is the knowledge that I was never in any danger of not finishing from fatigue or lack of fitness, only from my wretched glass feet and their pesky blisters. For once I had a really good base of training (up until the end of July at least) and on this occasion my challenges came from an unexpected direction. Time to re investigate those preventative taping strategies....
There is still something unresolved in my mind about these long endurance events. At the very blunt end of the field where I usually languish,a race like this isn't really a running race, it's more of an endurance test comprising long stretches of punishing tedium punctuated by fleeting highs. The medium for the pain could be running,or it could be repeatedly shutting your hand in a car door: the fleeting highs are briefer versions of those sweet spots you get on a shorter run where everything flows and you lock into something effortless. Somehow I need to shorten the car door bit and lengthen the effortless bit. I'll be working on it just as soon as I can walk properly again.
The Ring of Fire is without question a race which will quickly gain iconic status and deservedly so. It is a real challenge, organised by a great team and in a fantastic location. Thanks to Grom and everyone else for their company on the way round, to Bing, Q and the rest of the RoF team for a fabulous event and of course Carole for sending me a picture of a pizza while I was enduring some kind of hungry, dark , foot hell sometime on Saturday night.
Would I do this again? Hmm. In principle I would,but I now have 4 UTMB points with another possible 3 on offer if I can make it round the Winter 100. UTMB? now there's somewhere I would really be out of my league
The dirty traitors:
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