The only smart thing I did regarding this race was divide and conquer - we entered as a relay team of three. This was wise. I would not have finished the mud-bog-moremud-crazy-river-crossings course if I'd taken on the full 30km.
Besides that decision, this was one of those races where I did everything wrong.
Pre-race training was... well... there was no pre-race training. Why didn't anyone TELL me hill running requires running on hills? Don't ask me why but the two didn't click for me on this particular occasion, and I continued to train like it was any road race, i.e. on the flat and asphalted streets of central London. Not smart.
Pre-race preparation wasn't exactly ideal.
The morning breakfast choice wasn't particularly clever either.
Lovingly cupping my sausage-and-bacon-food-baby, Boyfriend and I left our B&B and walked to Llanwrtyd Wells town centre, where registration was going down. Jokes aside, this small Welsh town should get a medal for it'sbizarre extremely innovative ways of attracting tourists. Who on earth would visit if it wasn't for the awesome, whacky bog snorkelling championships, tractor pulling, wife carrying, and of course, Man v Horse.
Our team's name was Scrambled Legs. We met our third member in town, crucially, the only person on the team who had some experience trail running, and had trained properly. Boyfriend doesn't train, end of, and I had trained wrong. We pinned our numbers to our shirts, pinned our hopes on Runner 1, high fived and went our separate ways - Runner 1 to the start line, Boyfriend to the bus to take him to the first relay changeover point, myself to the buses to the last changeover point.
It may have been the English breakfast with all the sides and extra sides, but you know those days when you're just not in the mood for a run? I was experiencing one of those. Plus while I was waiting for Boyfriend to thunder through I was accosted by one of those runners.
Ugh... They're just so boring and annoying. I'm very nearly at the point of telling them to bugger off, but the last dregs of manners and civility prevent me from doing so.
Anyway, Boyfriend arrived looking handsome as ever, we exchanged armbands, and after a quick peck and an 'I love you' I was off, oblivious to what I was in for.
My third was the longest (13.9km), compared to Boyfriends’ 11km and Runner 1's 10km, but they said mine would be the flattest, so I thought I'd done well.
Within 10 minutes I was in pain, breathless, muddy and walking up the inclines instead of running. I felt like SUCH a loser, I was less than 1km in and around me were heroes who had been running uphill for 21km already. Surely I should be the fresh faced spring chicken with a skip in her step and smile on her face?
Not so.
I quickly orientated myself, accepted that desperate times called for desperate measures, and by 2km had devised a new, cunning plan. I would power walk up the hills instead of running. Walking quickly was basically the same speed as my shambolic run anyway, might as well conserve energy and sprint down the hills to make up the lost time. I was always good at downhill. I might get a respectable overall time if I did that.
That strategy dissolved a few minutes later as I almost killed myself running down a muddy, rocky trail. Slippery, narrow, jagged, downright frightening downhill terrains of death quickly quashed my best laid plans.
The rest of the race was spent in a similar amount of misery as the first 2km. I had a mental meltdown at 4km (went along the lines of "4km? I've only done 4km?! What the hell this is bullshit I QUIT!"). I only kept going because there was nowhere to quit - my options were to go back to the relay point, beg the family of the token cottage along the way for a lift back to town, or keep going.
Wanting to preserve the little dignity I had left, I kept going.
Besides that decision, this was one of those races where I did everything wrong.
Pre-race training was... well... there was no pre-race training. Why didn't anyone TELL me hill running requires running on hills? Don't ask me why but the two didn't click for me on this particular occasion, and I continued to train like it was any road race, i.e. on the flat and asphalted streets of central London. Not smart.
Pre-race preparation wasn't exactly ideal.
The morning breakfast choice wasn't particularly clever either.
Lovingly cupping my sausage-and-bacon-food-baby, Boyfriend and I left our B&B and walked to Llanwrtyd Wells town centre, where registration was going down. Jokes aside, this small Welsh town should get a medal for it's
Our team's name was Scrambled Legs. We met our third member in town, crucially, the only person on the team who had some experience trail running, and had trained properly. Boyfriend doesn't train, end of, and I had trained wrong. We pinned our numbers to our shirts, pinned our hopes on Runner 1, high fived and went our separate ways - Runner 1 to the start line, Boyfriend to the bus to take him to the first relay changeover point, myself to the buses to the last changeover point.
It may have been the English breakfast with all the sides and extra sides, but you know those days when you're just not in the mood for a run? I was experiencing one of those. Plus while I was waiting for Boyfriend to thunder through I was accosted by one of those runners.
Ugh... They're just so boring and annoying. I'm very nearly at the point of telling them to bugger off, but the last dregs of manners and civility prevent me from doing so.
Anyway, Boyfriend arrived looking handsome as ever, we exchanged armbands, and after a quick peck and an 'I love you' I was off, oblivious to what I was in for.
My third was the longest (13.9km), compared to Boyfriends’ 11km and Runner 1's 10km, but they said mine would be the flattest, so I thought I'd done well.
Within 10 minutes I was in pain, breathless, muddy and walking up the inclines instead of running. I felt like SUCH a loser, I was less than 1km in and around me were heroes who had been running uphill for 21km already. Surely I should be the fresh faced spring chicken with a skip in her step and smile on her face?
Not so.
I quickly orientated myself, accepted that desperate times called for desperate measures, and by 2km had devised a new, cunning plan. I would power walk up the hills instead of running. Walking quickly was basically the same speed as my shambolic run anyway, might as well conserve energy and sprint down the hills to make up the lost time. I was always good at downhill. I might get a respectable overall time if I did that.
That strategy dissolved a few minutes later as I almost killed myself running down a muddy, rocky trail. Slippery, narrow, jagged, downright frightening downhill terrains of death quickly quashed my best laid plans.
The rest of the race was spent in a similar amount of misery as the first 2km. I had a mental meltdown at 4km (went along the lines of "4km? I've only done 4km?! What the hell this is bullshit I QUIT!"). I only kept going because there was nowhere to quit - my options were to go back to the relay point, beg the family of the token cottage along the way for a lift back to town, or keep going.
Wanting to preserve the little dignity I had left, I kept going.
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