Keswick Mountain Festival 50K
So, if I'm going to write one of those self-indulgent running blogs, my first ultra seems like as good a place to start as any. I'll do my best not waffle. And I will fail miserably, sorry.
I was probably less nervous about this than almost any other race I've ever done. I've had a pretty rubbish 15 months in terms of running, the main issue being with my right tibialis posterior. I've spent a fortune on physio, PT sessions to kick my gym hating arse into much stronger shape, taken time off, more or less given up road running altogether, but the problem refuses to clear up properly. There's a simple answer: more time off. But, well, yeah.
Anyway, having rather unexpectedly made it to the start line, I found myself in a distinctly unspring-like Cumbrian field at 6.15am on Sunday 17th May, having run a meagre 300 miles in 2015. I'd done a marathon in February; my first, incidentally, and at 28.5 miles with over 4000ft of ascent, pretty good preparation for what I was about to attempt. How unfortunate that 3 months of inadequate running ensued! I'd also got into the mind set (after reading a shitload of ultra-blogs) of thinking, 'oh well, it's only 50k, not really a big deal; hardly even an ultra,' so I'm sure that helped to dispel any nerves. I had no expectations of myself; this was to be a day out in the hills, doing something I enjoy, and finding out how my body would react.
Like the first class plonker that I am, I wore a new piece of kit on race day; as if this wasn't stupid enough, said item of gear was a running dress. Anyone who knows me will now fall about laughing at the prospect of me wearing a dress at all, never mind while running up and down hills, but the dress itself wasn't the problem. The problem was my pants. They rode up from the off and the chafing didn't take long to start, so that was uncomfortable. I can deal with discomfort though, after a while it can't hurt any more than it already does so you suck it up and keep moving forward. Then something else starts to hurt (next up, my feet, which weren't getting on with my trainers AT ALL), and so you forget about pain A and focus on pain B for a while, until pain/discomfort C rears its nasty head, and so on and so forth.
Unfortunately there were several occasions when I found myself just moving forward in the wrong direction, having managed to miss the red flags marking the 50K route. This was definitely down to inattention on my part (I was probably fiddling with my pants), but all told I think my navigational incompetence added on about 3 miles and cost me a good 45 minutes. That's a big chunk of time over 50K, but apart from swearing at myself in a fashion fit to make a navvie blush, I think I did a pretty good job of keeping my shit together.
It's now almost 5 weeks since the race and I can't remember enough about the route to give a mile by mile account; nor do I really want to. Things that stick in my memory are: the headwind going up over Honister; the never ending descent from there and how utterly shite I continue to be at getting myself down hills, but nonetheless managing to get to the bottom with my teeth intact; the chafing; the very nice marshals, particularly the Scottish lady who'd set up an unofficial checkpoint at the head of Crummock and who got me to sit down and eat my cocktail sausages, which definitely improved my day; Rannerdale bluebells; compliments on my dress (despite being covered in shite on account of me employing the tried and tested arse descending technique that serves me well when I can't make my brain and my feet cooperate); the frankly fucking hideous single track which, despite its innocuous appearance, very nearly did for my ankles due to its camber; the chafing; the lovely women from Edinburgh with whom I ran for long sections and whose company really pulled me through when I felt extremely crap; the equally lovely women I stomped much of the last couple of miles with and who were almost as good at swearing as I am; did I mention the chafing?
So it wasn't pretty, and at 8 hours 27 minutes and however many seconds, it was pathetically slow, but I couldn't really have expected anything else. My Garmin wiped itself before I could upload any data, although I did manage to record most of the second half on my phone using Strava, so I'm not sure of the stats. I think there was about 6000ft of ascent, probably a bit more, and I covered at least 35 miles, on account of me being a navigational knob head. I was 13th female finisher, exactly half way down the women's field, so obviously I'm still kicking myself about the bonus miles but, hey, it's all extra training! And on the plus side, my shin didn't hurt at all and I was back to running my regular route through the woods at home in a couple of days.
Next up: The Lakeland 50. I'm under no illusions about how much harder that's going to be, especially given the potential for hot weather, which will not suit my fair-skinned, northern self one bit, but I'll deal with that on the day. And at least I won't have to drive myself home after that one!
I was probably less nervous about this than almost any other race I've ever done. I've had a pretty rubbish 15 months in terms of running, the main issue being with my right tibialis posterior. I've spent a fortune on physio, PT sessions to kick my gym hating arse into much stronger shape, taken time off, more or less given up road running altogether, but the problem refuses to clear up properly. There's a simple answer: more time off. But, well, yeah.
Anyway, having rather unexpectedly made it to the start line, I found myself in a distinctly unspring-like Cumbrian field at 6.15am on Sunday 17th May, having run a meagre 300 miles in 2015. I'd done a marathon in February; my first, incidentally, and at 28.5 miles with over 4000ft of ascent, pretty good preparation for what I was about to attempt. How unfortunate that 3 months of inadequate running ensued! I'd also got into the mind set (after reading a shitload of ultra-blogs) of thinking, 'oh well, it's only 50k, not really a big deal; hardly even an ultra,' so I'm sure that helped to dispel any nerves. I had no expectations of myself; this was to be a day out in the hills, doing something I enjoy, and finding out how my body would react.
Like the first class plonker that I am, I wore a new piece of kit on race day; as if this wasn't stupid enough, said item of gear was a running dress. Anyone who knows me will now fall about laughing at the prospect of me wearing a dress at all, never mind while running up and down hills, but the dress itself wasn't the problem. The problem was my pants. They rode up from the off and the chafing didn't take long to start, so that was uncomfortable. I can deal with discomfort though, after a while it can't hurt any more than it already does so you suck it up and keep moving forward. Then something else starts to hurt (next up, my feet, which weren't getting on with my trainers AT ALL), and so you forget about pain A and focus on pain B for a while, until pain/discomfort C rears its nasty head, and so on and so forth.
Unfortunately there were several occasions when I found myself just moving forward in the wrong direction, having managed to miss the red flags marking the 50K route. This was definitely down to inattention on my part (I was probably fiddling with my pants), but all told I think my navigational incompetence added on about 3 miles and cost me a good 45 minutes. That's a big chunk of time over 50K, but apart from swearing at myself in a fashion fit to make a navvie blush, I think I did a pretty good job of keeping my shit together.
It's now almost 5 weeks since the race and I can't remember enough about the route to give a mile by mile account; nor do I really want to. Things that stick in my memory are: the headwind going up over Honister; the never ending descent from there and how utterly shite I continue to be at getting myself down hills, but nonetheless managing to get to the bottom with my teeth intact; the chafing; the very nice marshals, particularly the Scottish lady who'd set up an unofficial checkpoint at the head of Crummock and who got me to sit down and eat my cocktail sausages, which definitely improved my day; Rannerdale bluebells; compliments on my dress (despite being covered in shite on account of me employing the tried and tested arse descending technique that serves me well when I can't make my brain and my feet cooperate); the frankly fucking hideous single track which, despite its innocuous appearance, very nearly did for my ankles due to its camber; the chafing; the lovely women from Edinburgh with whom I ran for long sections and whose company really pulled me through when I felt extremely crap; the equally lovely women I stomped much of the last couple of miles with and who were almost as good at swearing as I am; did I mention the chafing?
So it wasn't pretty, and at 8 hours 27 minutes and however many seconds, it was pathetically slow, but I couldn't really have expected anything else. My Garmin wiped itself before I could upload any data, although I did manage to record most of the second half on my phone using Strava, so I'm not sure of the stats. I think there was about 6000ft of ascent, probably a bit more, and I covered at least 35 miles, on account of me being a navigational knob head. I was 13th female finisher, exactly half way down the women's field, so obviously I'm still kicking myself about the bonus miles but, hey, it's all extra training! And on the plus side, my shin didn't hurt at all and I was back to running my regular route through the woods at home in a couple of days.
Next up: The Lakeland 50. I'm under no illusions about how much harder that's going to be, especially given the potential for hot weather, which will not suit my fair-skinned, northern self one bit, but I'll deal with that on the day. And at least I won't have to drive myself home after that one!
Comments
Post a Comment