Running To The Limits

They often say that in order to get better at something. You have to push your limits. This was brought home to me this week when I was recommended to watch a film by Alex Vero called “Running to the Limits”. In the film, Alex starts off as a 16.5st smoker and attempts to train to become an elite marathon runner.  It’s well worth a watch. I must admit for the running geek like myself, there’s precious little on the actual training process (gets in the way of a good narrative I imagine). Alex starts training, claiming to barely be able to run a mile, seemingly six months later he’s running an 80min Half Marathon. Uh-Huh. But as I say, it’s a good watch, I’m slightly (read very) in awe of Bruce Tulloh. My coach Nick even pops up. It’s a family affair.

One of the main points of the film seems to be - Just go for it, so this weekend I did. Earlier in the week, an email went round my squad asking if anyone wanted to run the Moel Siabod Fell Race in North Wales.  I’ve always wanted to give one of these things a go. This was relatively close (2hr drive) and my training plan had a hill session down for Saturday anyway. After consulting with Nick ("yeah, go and have fun") I was good to go. The Capel Curig Festival was happening at the same time, so Steve came with me, a rare outing together for us at the weekend.

We arrived and headed to registration. The £5 entry fee seemed a bargain and next to the sign something caught my eye. It was a pile of maps of the mountain and everyone seemed to be taking one. An adjacent guide showed the location of a gate about halfway up, so like everyone else I took one and used the provided marker pen to mark an approximate route. Then I saw the other notices and suddenly went very pale. There were signs everywhere saying that cagoules and waterproof trousers were compulsory, along with a compass and whistle. I didn’t have anything like that with me. I’d just turned up like I would do at any other race. I had vision of being hauled away and banned at the start. I wandered quietly back to the car, not sure of what was going to happen.

At the car, I overhead the people next to us talking. Seemingly, it was her first fell race as well and she was professing to be a little nervous. That gave me some comfort, with her friend was saying that she’d be ok and just take it slowly. Also, the runners milling around didn’t seem to have all the extra, kit so I started to think I’d be OK.

It was interesting to note that EVERYONE was in Salomon or Innov8 shoes. There was in my Brooks Cascadia trail shoes. I know that shoes choice is a personal thing, but with EVERYONE in those other shoes, I might as well have been in slingbacks. I felt every unprepared.

It was at that point I saw the top of the hill…the mountain.

It was peaking over the top of a wooded hill in front of us. Now, I admit I’ve never had reason to climb many high things. In fact, you could go so far as to say I’ve actively avoided them. So when someone tells me there’s a climb of 700m involved I think ‘That’s nice’, but I have no frame of reference to base any thoughts on. So when this 700m was staring me in the face, I felt sick of the pit of my stomach. Oh. Dear. God.

It was at that point I said to Steve “I don’t think I can do this”. I felt like I had bitten off far more than I could chew. I had visions of being air-lifted off the mountain, or being found huddled in a ball half (or quarter) way up.

The conversation with Steve continued, me basically on the verge of tears and am not afraid of admitting it. Sometimes you have to acknowledge your limits. When someone says “Are you Man or Mouse?” I’ll hunt for the nearest Cheddar and run up a conveniently placed Grandfather Clock.

Steady as ever, Steve said “I know you can do this”. I know that he was probably thinking “Once he starts he won’t want to stop” but it was the vote of support I needed. This wasn’t going to be an event for winning gold medals, just a steady climb and descent.

We made our way to the startline; the field being about 100 people. Everyone looked suspiciously fit (of course they did, they were the sort that voluntarily ran up Welsh mountains for fun) and there weren’t any noticeable ‘back-markers’ I could stick with in safety. Simone, who I blame for this whole debacle’, from PLS came over and wished me good luck. Soon enough it was time to go.

I kept my pace steady through the first wooded section, we were definitely going uphill but I was about 50m behind Simone and feeling good. We carried on up and the terrain started changing. Soon enough we reached a stile, “That was quick” I thought to myself. The stile on the map was about halfway up. “Maybe this won’t be as high as I though”. Sadly that was the first of four of them. Higher and higher we climbed, the terrain changed and changed again. Every time I looked up, all I saw was a line of people snaking ever higher. I imagine the scenery about me was lovely, but I was so terrified I couldn’t bring myself to look. The last think I wanted to do was freeze on the mountainside.

The camaraderie with other runners was great, “what are we doing?!” was the general gist. There were a couple of points where I was obviously going a bit slow for those behind. Much huffing and puffing ensued. My aim was to get up and down, no heroics, so I let them past. Not much of a racing mentality some may say. I reply, on that day the opponent was the mountain itself not other runners.

Up and up we travelled over mud, slate and scree. The wind was pushing us into the mountain, something I was very glad of. After what seemed like an age, the front runners starting coming back down and passing us. It was like there was no hill, they were running at a speed that was roughly my 400m interval place. It was mind blowing. We still had much more to climb though.

Eventually, I could see the top of Moel Siabod. I knew I was nearly there, but also I was VERY high indeed. The picnickers at the top seemed a very strange interlude as I clung on for dear life before finally touching the Trig Pillar at the summit. Apparently, if I’d been able to open my eyes, I would have seen 13 of the 14 highest peaks in Wales without turning my head.

But I’d done it , I’d got to the top, now there was just the small matter of getting back down again. 

The word of the day was ‘Gingerly’.

I did run when I could, but if anything I think it was easier to ascend than descend. At one checkpoint, a marshal said “Please tell you are 55 (number was on my shorts)”. When I said yes, he said “Good, I’ve been wondering where you were”. *coughIwasdescendingslowlycough*. I joked with a couple of the marshals on the way down that this was an extreme way of curing my fear of heights. I don’t know if they know I wasn’t joking…

I carried on down, having some good little ‘race-within-races’ with other runners running across boggy ground. Finally, we can back to the wooded path and I could build up some speed, passing a runner or two in the process.

I was relieved at the finish.

The camaraderie of the race was great; I tend to really like races like this, instead of the big city monsters. A couple of the runners asked if I would be back next year, and do you know I can’t say the answer is a definite NO. Dipping tired legs into the river afterwards brought welcome relief as did the picnic I’d brought for us, which we munched by the boot of the car, watching the carnival. That was lovely.

I challenged myself yesterday, got out of my comfort zone, with everything in my body was screaming at me not to do it. But a combination of ignorance of what I was letting myself in for, and support from Steve and the other runners meant I got through it. Ok, I probably didn’t ‘race’ the event for the majority of it, but I tried my hardest and achieved something I’ve not done before. That’s a win in my book.

Whilst I’m most definitely not a natural fell runner, I’ll certainly be doing more Multi-terrain races next year and building my confidence a bit more. Maybe I should walk up a few more of these hills before I try and run up them.