Ray D'Arcy's LauraLynn Half Marathon

Ray D'Arcy had started a challenge at the start of the year, to run a marathon every week for the entire year, and of course to collect money for the LauraLynn children's charity while doing so. Since I cannot think of a more deserving charity in Ireland, I signed up for it.

 

Spotted on the way to the start

Covering a distance of 26 miles in a week isn't exactly a major challenge, so for most of the year I was just ticking along. I did a few more challenges alongside that one, most notably the East Of Ireland last person standing one, twice, which always went on for weeks and, as per usual, I was too stubborn to pull out when I should have and went on and on and on. In fact, during the final week of the second challenge I ran over 120 miles - and I did not even realise it until a few weeks afterwards when I accidentally checked my logs on Strava!

Anyway, I had long covered the entire 52 marathons and at the start of December Ray organised a half marathon in Phoenix Park for everyone to take part, rather than just long lonely mile after lonely mile. Bizarrely enough, I had not run a half marathon for over 10 years, while running dozens of races both longer and shorter.

Of course I had not trained for that. I had taken it rather easy after the Eco Trail, reconning that my body was better off with some rest rather than jumping back into training. I had barely gone over 10 miles on the weekends, so this was actually my longest run in a while, not that I was worried about the distance - I sure was not in there for a decent time, though. As a direct result of my lack of preparation I did not even try to go for a time, just jog the thing, collect the medal and t-shirt, an go home. And that's pretty much what I did.

Covid restrictions had lifted for December to allow the run to go ahead (and I am not aware of anyone getting infected there, not that I have much insight), which must have been the greatest question mark, and at 9 o'clock we assembled at the start line. I was very much towards the end of the field, not just because I had no ambitions regarding time but also to avoid the crowded masses further ahead. Once we go going it inevitably meant weaving around God knows how many other runners for the first mile and eventually we settled in position and just go on with the rest of the race.

Phoenix Park is quite hilly and it definitely was not a flat course, not that it compared to my previous one on Valentia Island in Kerry. I just took it even easier on the uphills, and made up for some of it on the downhills. The course design was a bit strange, basically 4 loops, getting ever smaller. The first loop brought us all the way to the other end of the Park, the second one cut back at halfway and the last 2 ones were smaller ones of the Tom Brennan New Year's Day 5k, albeit going the other way. It meant you actually passed through the finish after loop 3 with almost 2 miles yet to go, and I'm sure there were some that "forgot" to do the final loop. I had definitely erred on the slow side of pacing myself and with one mile to go I had still plenty in the legs and went a bit faster for the last one, not that a 7:30 mile was in any way impressive (I used to comfortably run a minute per mile faster for the entire distance, not just the finish stretch). Ah well. Getting old sucks. I think I may have mentioned that already. My time was just over 1:50 - almost half an hour slower than 10 years ago. Yeah, getting old definitely sucks!

  

The End

After crossing the line I collected my medal and there was nobody there to chat to, really, so I just went home. A bit of an anti-climatic finish, which goes with a bit of an anti-climatic race, I guess. Still happy to have done it. Thanks to Ray D'Arcy for organising it, and of course, most importantly, for collecting a seven-figure sum (!!) for an outstanding charity.

This Used To Be So Much Easier

I was a tad nervous going into this year's Donadea, knowing full well that a tough day was ahead of me. I basically stopped training about 5 weeks ago when I realised that it was only getting me tired and hurting and I was getting slower and slower, so I decided there was no point to it and maybe even potentially damaging to my long term health.

However, I'm still as stubborn as ever and since I was already signed up, and places are hard to come by and the transfer window had long closed, there was never any question of not taking up my place rather than waste it.

It was my fifth time at that race. Going into it I had two sequences going: 1) I had finished slower and slower with each attempt and 2) I had always finished under 4 hours. There was not an ounce of doubt that sequence one would be kept going and sequence two was going to not just fall but be blown to smithereens.

I chose what I felt was the conservative option and started with the 4:30 pacers, which in fact brought some comments from fellow runners what I was doing back here, but I know my glory days are gone. As was perfectly predictable, it was very, very, very comfortable at the start, so easy that I almost felt strained - to keep running so slowly, that is. We chatted away, Gary and Ollie doing a great job as pacers, but I found running in a tightly packed group a bit uncomfortable, you just can't stride out properly when you're packed tightly on a fairly narrow path, so when after about 2 or 3 lap I got slightly ahead of the group at the start/finish area, I kept going just a tiny bit faster than the guys. It was never my goal to run away from them and chase a glory time - I merely found it easier to run just ahead of the group, nice chaps as they are. There were still plenty of friendly faces around and I chatted for quite some time to Barry, who was in a similar position to me: once a good runner but a bit burned out now, but still enjoying a day like today. In my case, as I told him, it was basically running a race too far - except that it clearly had been more than just one race.

Anyway, I felt very comfortable at that pace until 30k, which I had always felt was the minimum distance that I had to run comfortably in order to still be guaranteed to finish under the 5 hours cut off even if things were to fall apart completely. Not that I had ever been worried about missing a cut off, not in any race in the past, and not today either. But things did indeed start to fall apart here. At the very first climb, inside the first k of loop 7, both of my calves started to spasm, the first sign of a cramp.

Cramp. The bane of my running life. Cramping calves have destroyed many a good race of mine. I have cramped in about half of my races, and I never managed to figure out what exactly is causing it, though there was always a strong correlation to not being in top shape, which is why those cramps did not come as much of a surprise - today was always a question of when I was going to cramp, not if.

On the plus side, countless of miles on cramping legs have given me plenty of opportunity to learn how to nurse my legs along. The first, and by far the most important thing, was to slow down. There was no point in trying any heroics. I had to slow down or else those cramps were going to stop me in my tracks. So I slowed from 26/27 minutes per lap to 30 minutes, which got me through the next 2 laps and a bit. I had spasms shooting through my legs throughout but never a full cramp, and could keep going reasonably well. The 4:30 group passed by very quickly, and Gary asked if I wanted to hop along but I knew my legs would explode straight away if I tried, and therefore declined. (He also made some joke about me once being a superstar and now ... ah well)

That strategy got me to 41 km, almost the marathon point. And even though I thought I had a handle on things, at that point my legs just started to cramp really violently, and boy did that hurt! I had no choice but to walk off the cramps whenever they struck (basically on every incline, and on plenty of flat bits as well) and very, very carefully re-start running whenever I felt I was going to be able to, with plenty of very painful restarts along the way.

It wasn't the best fun I've ever had, though there was a funny moment towards the end of lap 9 when I passed by the loudspeaker belting out "encouragement", or at least Anto's version of it, and it said "Hey, I said no compression socks", which was funny with me waddling by in my gorgeous new bright pink patterned compression socks, purchased solely for this very race (btw, they were utterly useless as far as compression was concerned, I wore them purely for show. Considering my cramps, maybe I should have worn proper socks instead, it may or may not have made a difference)

The last 2 laps went by at snails pace, 34 and 33 minutes each, and looking at the results I would have finished a whopping 50 places ahead had I kept running at my earlier pace. Energy-wise I was perfectly fine, I wasn't even particularly tired, from that point of view I could have gone further and faster, but it was clearly a case of the chain only being as strong as its weakest link, and the weakest link turned out to be very weak indeed.

In fact, by the time I had finished 8 laps I was already past by personal best (!) and by the time I finished lap 9 I was already significantly past my up-to-now personal worst (!!!). Jesus!

Anyway, I eventually managed to drag my sorry arse over the line in 4:47:17, much slower than even my very modest expectation had been, but at least finish I did, and there's yet another t-shirt in my collection. Not sure how many more there will be, to be honest. This running crack isn't quite what it used to be.

Having said that, if you're not a burned out has-been, do yourself a massive favour and sign up for next year. It is such a super event! The vibe at that place is just brilliant and you will have the time of your life!

Photos by Anto Lee

8 Feb 2020

Donadea 50k, 4:47:17, 143rd place, 13th M50

Four Mountains and Almost a Funeral

I don't think I ever got the chance to sleep in my own bed and wake up naturally at my usual time and still be able to comfortably make the start of an ultra race. It sure never happened in Kerry, so that was definitely a new-found luxury. Too bad I still didn't manage to sleep properly - it was the usual sleepless night before a big race.

I got Niamh to drop me down to the Prom, less than 10 minutes from home, to the race start. After the usual plenty of hellos to familiar faces (and a couple of unfamiliar ones) we lined up at the start and at 8:30 am, a fairly civilised time, we set off. The 80k had about 150 starters I guess, but there were 3 shorter options available today as well and apparently they had 1100 runners signed up!

Bray Head

I have done a lot of ultras but it was only my second mountain ultra and it was definitely new territory for me. I have more or less gotten used to the fact that I'm no longer competitive at the front end of the field (not that I ever would have been in the mountains), so the plan was to enjoy it as much as I could. I had scouted out most of the route in the last 2 months and gotten quite familiar with the trails, so I knew very well what was in store. Thankfully the weather forecast had improved just a day before the race an it was to be a nice enough day, though I knew I would run the last hour or two in the rain. I reckoned by that time I would be past caring.

View of Greystones from Bray Head

I spent a couple of miles chatting to Liam, having run a fair few races together in the past. He had finished hours ahead of me in Connemara half a year ago and is much more used to running in the mountains but had missed vast chunks of training with injury, so I guess we were matched much closer this time round. Mind, I was a bit undertrained myself, deliberately so, because I really did not want to fall into my customary overtraining trap and had definitely erred on the side of caution.

The first climb may well have been the steepest one already and I started hiking sooner than most others around me, not willing to waste my energy at the very first opportunity already. The footing up Bray Head from the Bray side isn't great either but with fresh legs that's not an issue. I was already dreading having to descend it on destroyed legs at the end of the race, though - but there was no point in worrying about that already.

Little Sugarloaf

After Bray Head we entered the usually off-limits swanky Kilruddery estate, which was a first for me, and got a few easy miles in before the next climb, Little Sugarloaf. We didn't go all the way to the top but crossed over on a rough trail towards Kilmacanogue where we crossed the M11 via the footbridge and headed towards the proper mountain area away from civilisation.

I was happy to have done some training on those trails because familiarity definitely helped, but I was especially glad when I passed the turn-off for the Sugarloaf trail because that happened to be the one junction of the entire race that was poorly marked - I only spotted a bit of yellow marking tape further up the trail because I was really looking for it, and I was only looking so closely because I had expected to be heading up there. A few more flags and a marshall right at that point would have been more appropriate.

Great Sugarloaf

Anyway, that's where the climbing started in earnest as we did the big loop on the flanks of Great Sugarloaf. Again, we didn't actually cross over the top because the summit cone is rather eroded and definitely would not have been suitable for the big numbers in today's races, but it was still a very long climb.

Still, I felt really good coming into the Sugarloaf aid station, not quite 10 miles in, enjoying the breathtaking views and looking forward to the next mountain, Djouce, already. I also heard one runner complaining about that badly signposted junction, but I haven't heard any complaints from anyone in the shorter races since, so they may well have solved the issue for the later starts.

I used to get frustrated by people doing selfies
during a race. Now I'm one of them.

Anyway, to get to Djouce we were routed through the Powerscourt Gardens, another part of Wicklow that's usually off-limits (unless you pay, that is), so I was happy enough to see the truly spectacular waterfall there as an added bonus. We got a second glimpse of it a few miles later from much higher up, another absolutely breathtaking view. The race route sure was very well chosen.

And then there was Djouce, just after seeing Mick at one of the checkpoints. Years ago he had stated casually once that he would be making a trail runner out of me yet. That really hadn't come to fruition - until right now that is, probably totally unexpectedly, though I doubt he still remembers the original remark.

Djouce is by far the highest point of the course and it can be very windy up there but we got a pretty good day, and while the wind sure was noticeable it wasn't much of a factor. The most prominent feature about the Wicklow Way in the Djouce area is the boardwalk, which wasn't my favourite part of the race, to be honest, because it's in rather bad condition and not particularly great to run on. I was happy enough to eventually get off it. There were plenty more stunning views to be had, especially so of Lough Tay, and then it's about 6 gradually downhill miles towards Roundwood, most of it runnable but a few rough and stony trails thrown in for good measure as well.

Powerscourt waterfall

I was exactly 4:20 into the race and still half an hour away from Roundwood when the race leader came up on his way back home, moving exceptionally well. He had a big gap on the runners behind him, and then I saw Eoin in 4th place, very impressive just a few weeks after his stunning performance at UTMB. However, my own race took a sharp turn for the worse as my calves started cramping, just a few isolated spasms at first but they very quickly turned into full cramps. At first I could not run even on the gentlest of climbs, then they started cramping on the flat and before I reached Roundwood they even started cramping while jogging at the easiest effort level downhill. And as if that were not enough, they even started cramping when hiking uphill on a couple of occasions! All of a sudden I was in real trouble. Not only did I still have over half the race ahead of me, I also had to climb over all those mountains again on the way back home, and in my present state that seemed a rather ambitious target. I was having serious doubts if I would be able to finish.

Djouce

I struggled into Roundwood, and at the aid station I realised how dehydrated I had become. The last water station had been a long while ago and I had been sparing with my water use, though I had not even realised how  thirsty I was until I saw the water there. I know there is a theory that dehydration can cause cramps but I do have serious doubts about that - but obviously I drank plenty and filled my two bottles up to the brim.

We had to do a flat 5k loop towards the Vartry reservoir before coming back into Roundwood again. It felt like a tacked-on section, out of character with the rest of the route because it was mostly flat, and just there to make up the distance. However, it was a good thing for me as it enabled me to fill up my water bottles yet again for a second time in a short while, and with that I basically had caught up with my hydration again. I did whine to Rene about my cramping legs, he did suggest salt but I had already taken a couple of salt tablets already, and I also ate a few Doritos off the aid station table, so I reckoned I had covered that angle already. That little reservoir loop had taken me much longer than I would have expected because I had been forced to walk much of it, and the next thing awaiting me was the return climb over Djouce. I really did not know how I could possibly make that.

Still Djouce

However, my legs may have gone but my big strength in my ultra running career has always been my stubbornness. As long as I was able to make at least one more step I was still in the business. I was over an hour ahead of the Roundwood cut-off and a quick calculation in my head indicated that even if I had to walk the entire way back home I should still be able to make the final cut-off, though after well over 5 hours on my legs my math skills were not entirely reliable any more. Leg-wise, I was still hoping for a miracle.

Vartry Reservoir

As I made my way out of Roundwood I wasn't in the best of spirits but I was still in the game. As the miles wore on I was surprised that nobody was overtaking me yet, but I guess even the "runnners" with non-cramping legs were tired at that point and they were all hiking themselves and therefore not really moving any faster than me. That changed when I reached a few flatter sections and a few girls and boys did indeed pass me, including Liam eventually. We did chat a bit but he soon moved ahead and I definitely did not expect to see him again.

Around that time I took a paracetamol. Now, I really hate taking painkillers in a race, it can be a really bad idea, especially when you're dehydrated and the aid stations here were very far apart, but I was desperate and had totally run out of sensible ideas so I moved on to the insensible ones. I wasn't really in pain as such, and I had never heard of a painkiller helping with cramps, so it really was just an act of desperation due to lack of other options. However, within 10 minutes the calves started to feel better and I even managed to jog a bit, first on the downhills and then even on the flats, without yelping in pain after 3 seconds. Was it really the paracetamol? I have no idea, and quite frankly at that point I didn't care a dot what it was, I was just glad that I could move again, though overall I was still in pretty bad shape and any time I tried to push my luck I was very quickly reminded of my limits.

Possibly the best view all day, Lough Tay

As I got to the last water station before Djouce at the military road I saw Liam again. He was just as surprised to see me as I was to see him, but we left at the same time and this time I managed to stay with him and another runner as we tackled the boardwalk again. The boards were very slippy and you had to mind your step but we made reasonable progress. I did fall behind on a couple of occasions when the guys started running on the flatter sections and my legs weren't quite up to their pace but every time I caught up on the steeper hiking parts again. To be honest, I was happy just to still being able to move.

Great Sugarloaf. Not small. Just far away!

I was really worried about the Powerscourt section, though. On our way out we had run down a ridiculously steep trail towards the Dargle river at the bottom and I feared my legs would not be able to make it back up such a steep trail and had visions of me literally being stuck right at the bottom. Then again, I had to get there first, so just concentrate on the next step and worry about the rest later.

We eventually reached the high point again and on the downhill part I realised that my calves weren't the only issue, my quads were hurting badly by this point as well. I was ok when the path was smooth but there are long sections of very rough footing and I struggled to keep up with the guys and only just about managed to hang on. Also, I caught a few stones with my toes and while I never fell it always sent my calves back into cramping, which was just as painful as a faceplant would have been. Finally we got to a smoother section, grassy and a bit muddy, and I coped much better on that surface.

That was all fine and well until we got back towards Powerscourt Gardens on a new trail, and that one was really rough, full of loose stones, and quite steep, and in no time at all I lost contact with Liam and struggled to slowly make my way downwards. Eventually, after a long painful struggle I finally got to a flat, smooth trail section but now my calves were back in full cramping mode and once more I was forced to walk on a section that normally would have been perfect for running. Thankfully, however, we did not drop all the way down to the river so I was spared that steep climb that I had been dreading. Instead there was only a 300 meter section back up to the road, this one made particularly interesting by a film crew setting up a scene for some spooky medieval/fantasy film, cool to watch, not that we had time to stop and gawk.

Great Sugarloaf

Crossing the road I was informed that the Sugarloaf aid station was only 3 km ahead, which was good news as I had completely run out of water. It had been a long time since the last aid station! I was also absolutely starving. I still had some chocolate in my pack but the mere thought of sweets almost made me gag and I really could not make myself eat that, not even a tiny bite. I should have brought some savoury options. Ah well. Next time. Unfortunately there was no ready-made table where you could have deposited a bag of boiled potatoes every mile, unlike some other races I would have been more used to.

Coming into the Sugarloaf aid station felt like a landmark, the long Djouce sections were behind us, there was less than 10 miles to go, and it felt that we were finally turning towards home. Liam was still there, but I was mostly concerned with stuffing my face with bananas, apples and eventually whole handfuls of  peanuts, which really hit the spot. Liam was still there, as were a few other runners, and we chatted bit before heading off again. By now we were 8:30 into the race and I was pretty sure my pre-race estimation of a finish somewhere between 10 and 11 hours would prove to be correct.

Look towards Bray with Killiney and Dalkey in the background

There was not much climbing left for Great Sugarloaf as the aid station was at a fairly high elevation anyway and we soon turned right onto a new trail. That was the only section that caught me slightly by surprise, on my training runs I had taken a different trail. Not that there was much difference, it was steep and my quads were destroyed from all the previous climbs as well as the 40+ miles we had accumulated so far and Liam very quickly disappeared over the horizon, as well as 2 or 3 other runners. I really struggled on this section, the quads were on fire with each step and when I finally reached a flatter section the calves were in full cramping mode again. At some point I took a second paracetamol but I don't think I noticed any difference whatsoever. After an absolute age we got onto the road, and for the first time in a very long while were back in civilisation, with houses, and people, and cars. Some more runners passed me but eventually I managed to somewhat sputter back to life and started to jog again, awkwardly and very, very slowly, but it was better than walking. We crossed the M11 again via the footbridge and on the serpentines down I could see at least half a dozen runners within maybe 30 seconds of me. Even though I wasn't competing for anything, the idea of being overtaken by so many guys in a short space of time didn't appeal to me at all. It's a mental thing. Maybe it's a fragile male ego thing.

As soon as we crossed the M11 we immediately had to climb the insanely steep road up Little Sugarloaf. This was seriously hard work but you know what? Somehow, without being able to explain it, I actually moved pretty well here. Maybe the sight of those runners just behind me had given me a jolt, maybe I was smelling the finish, maybe it was the fact that I was back in familiar territory but I hiked at what felt some serious pace. Not that you'd know it from looking at the mile splits but things are all relative after 44 miles when gaining almost 400 feet in a single mile. I had two distinct and slightly contradictory impressions here. One, I was moving surprisingly well. Two, I was in a world of pain, especially when we moved off the road and onto yet another stony, rough and very steep trail. Of all the miles in the entire race, this was the toughest one. It was there that my phone started ringing and even without looking at the screen I immediately knew it was Niamh who wanted to know when I expected to finish. I wasn't able to say much but I managed to tell here where I was and expect to finish somewhere around 60-90 minutes from now. Jesus, she really managed to pick her moment there!

My watch gave up the ghost shortly after, which really pissed me off. Just a bit longer and I would have had the whole race in one file. However, I had my phone with me and recorded the rest of the race with that. Not that having a full GPS track of the race is of any real importance but if you run 50 miles across several mountains you may as well record the damn thing.

Bray Head from a totally unfamiliar angle

That trail looked and felt completely new, and once I somehow got my aching bones over the top there were a plethora of gates to be passed through that all felt brand new. That trail must be a very recent development, I sure was not familiar with it at all, but then again it was the "other" side of Little Sugarloaf. Somehow the legs came back to me on the downhill and I covered the ground much better than I could have hoped for, towards the final aid station, only 6 km and only one mountain left, and a fairly small one at that. Bray Head, very familiar territory, even if I approached it from a very unfamiliar angle. As I made my way through Belmont estate it finally started raining, something I had expected to happen much earlier, but the weather had held fine for almost the entire day. Shortly after crossing the Greystones road I took the rain jacket out of my back pack because by now it was raining heavily and I would have gotten cold very quickly up at the ridge. Again, I managed to hike the steep road much better than I could have hoped for but the bigger surprise was that I was able to run properly again once I reached the ridge, and there was not a hint of cramping left. How you can be unable to run at mile 23 but be able to move nicely at mile 46 I do not know, not that I cared much about the physiological details at that point. The Bray Head cross was surprisingly and pleasing close when I looked up and I was there in no time - but now it was time for the one section I had feared the most all along - the final, insanely steep descent on a really rough surface, slippery in the rain on totally destroyed legs, and to make matters worse it was actually pretty damn dark by now. I could have taken my light out of my back pack but somehow could not muster the energy to do so - just struggle down that damn hill, somehow, without smashing your head against a rock.

I did slip on several occasions and found it hard to make out the roots and stones that threatened to trip me up but by some miracle always remained upright and eventually came out of it still in one piece, onto the concrete road and then it was just the glory stretch left, down towards the sea front and half the promenade towards the finish. Final time 10:46:39, 42nd place in the provisional results but I think there are some runners left out of those so the final placing may well change.

Strava gave me an elevation change of almost 9300 feet / over 2800 meters, that's some serious elevation, especially for the much less rugged Wicklow mountains which are much gentler than the Alps or Rockies.

All done! Niamh was there, having gotten there just 2 minutes before my arrival, excellent timing. They gave me a cup of alcohol free Wicklow Wolf beer which I drained in one go, never has a beer out of a plastic cup tasted so good, alcohol free or not, and apparently it was the fastest they had seen anyone drink their beer all day, so at least I was the fastest at one thing today.

I was so glad to be done, this was every bit as tough as I had expected it to be. The trails are absolutely stunning, it is a spectacular race which I cannot recommend highly enough - if you don't fancy the pain of an ultra there are plenty of other options available, 18, 28 and 45 km, all of them very worthwhile, so come and do it next year yourself.

I have always been a pure road runner but with my competitive phase well behind me now I feel free to do whatever I want and I can definitely see myself out on the mountains again. I found the training as well as the racing on trails much more enjoyable than I expected, and quite frankly I can't wait to get more of the same.

I Used To Be Good At This, You Know

The Connemara Ultra is an iconic race in Ireland, and it used to be an absolute highlight of my running year, at least during the earlier stages of my running life. Things changed a bit 5 years ago, when Ray stopped being the race director it lost some of its shine and I had not been back since. Having said that, the reviews were still as good as ever, so when a few months ago a colleague at work asked me if I were interested in running it as part of a group that remembers Simone Grassi, a two-times winner of the marathon, I agreed to do it and so I was back at the start line after a 5 year absence.

Things had not changed much at all. In fact, the only two things I noticed differently were the fact that we were asked to run on the left side of the road rather than the right side, and the fact that Ray was not there. Apart from that the new organisers wisely left all the good bits in it, and it's still as brilliant a race as ever.

What's changed a bit is myself, and try as you might I knew I was in for my slowest time ever, barring a miracle. Losing 6 weeks in training at a crucial time is not something you can make up for, I really only got 2 decent weeks of training, and those were damn close to the race date at a time when I would usually have been looking at tapering, so I was under no illusions. I expected a very tough time ahead, even more so after cramping on my only 20 mile day, less than 2 weeks ago.

Never mind, we were actually pleasantly surprised by the fact that the torrential rain had stopped just in time as we gathered at the start line, it would have been an utterly miserable 20 minutes wait otherwise. I was particularly glad, standing there in my shorts and t-shirt when almost everyone else was wearing a jacket, and most of them with a backpack as well. However, I make those choices out of experience as well as personal preferences; on a cold day you're overdressed if you're not cold at the start, and I definitely don't see the point of carrying my own water around when there are aid stations every 3 miles.

Anyway, I started a good bit further back than usual and then drifted a few places further back with a slow first mile. All good. I got a couple of comments of "what are you doing back here" and "someone took your place up front" and responded that he must be 10 years younger. Then Barry pulled alongside and we fell into step, chatting relentlessly along the way, and the scene for the first few hours was set. We are both very experienced ultra runners and knew what we were doing. After a few miles a few guys went past, one of them commenting that they were probably doing something wrong passing us out, which reminded me of thinking exactly the same 5 years ago when I went past Eoin Keith early in a race. Ah yes, the good old times. Barry and myself talked a lot about them, and eventually Paul started running alongside us and got to hear a few good stories along the way.

The wind had been almost non-existent at the start but picked up considerably a few miles in, and at that point it was pushing us along, making things very easy. Obviously we knew there would be a price to pay, but so far so good. The first miles just flew by, and we were at the marathon start before we knew it.

In past years I would have caught up with the marathon field in next to no time but today they had been long gone when we got there in 1:53-ish. I picked up a nice bottle of sports drink, which hit the spot and was probably a factor in how easy the next few miles felt, though the fact that we had a rather strong wind pushing us along was a bigger one. At mile 17 or 18 Paul marvelled how easy it all felt, how he had never gotten so far feeling so fresh. The one downer was at the mile 19 checkpoint, where my prepared drinks bottle had gone missing from the ultra table. I had known perfectly well that this had always been a realistic possibility but I still wished the arsehole who had stolen someone else's bottle off the aid station table some violent diarrhea and a miserable race.

Anyway, the sharp turn towards the first proper climb of the day wasn't far off by now, and I pointed out to the lads that I hoped they were ready for 20 miles of headwind!

It wasn't a hard prediction to make.

As soon as we took that corner the wind was in our faces and we had plenty of time to get used to it. At first it was still all good, we all had gotten to that point in pretty decent shape, and by now we had finally caught up with the tail end of the marathon and gradually started reeling in a few of the stragglers. That first climb isn't all that long (I call it the "half a hill") and the "Stop and Pray"church wasn't as inviting yet as I thought it would be.

But there was no doubt that the real work of the day had started, and Barry was the first to feel the effects of a cramp, which was damn early in the race and with a lot of miles yet to go. He was actually moving pretty well when he could, but every now and then had to pull up and deal with cramp. Not good. We got to the downhill part into Leenane, found that running right behind an ambulance still did not provide any wind cover but a lot of Diesel fumes. The road into Leenane is always a bit longer than you think,and by the time I got there I was somehow running on my own again. The 13.1 miles since Louch Inagh had taken me almost 2 hours and I passed the marathon point in about 3:53. From the way the miles had felt I would have thought I would get there a bit quicker, but obviously the clock doesn't lie. However, I was still in reasonably good shape, which was good because the last half marathon would be significantly more challenging.

I might have felt okay but that feeling evaporated in no time whatsoever as soon as I started on the steep climb out of Leenane. Its the other hill of the course, the Hell of the West, that gets all the headlines but personally I think this one, the Devil's Mother, is worse (and the names here are somewhat telling). The wind was brutal, right into my face and I'm sure the valley ahead of us created a kind of funneling effect and doubled the wind speed. It was also much steeper than I could remember. In years gone past I had known that race so well I thought you could drop me off anywhere on the course and I would immediately know exactly where I was but the intervening years have obviously had an effect, though as I went along all the memories of yesteryear kept coming back again.

Anyway, I kept battling up the climb and I kept running because I knew that once I started walking everything would still hurt just as much but progress would be much slower and it would be a struggle to start running again. So I kept running, albeit slowly. Until the moment when I didn't, somehow. Not sure how that happened but it just seemed to take too much energy to run yet another step that barely brought me further up the hill and all of a sudden I found myself walking, thoroughly pissed off with myself for being so soft but at the same time utterly incapable of running again.

I kept on walking for most of the second half of the climb, not quite a mile, and three times unsuccessfully tried to start running again, unable to do so and having serious doubts about the miles again. Once I reached the top I eventually managed to get into a shuffle again, a rather pathetic one that was barely faster than walking but eventually the legs started loosening up to some extend and at least you could call it a run again.

From there on I was making a noise with each breath, and if you hear tales from the tail end of the marathon field about an ultra runner who was moaning with each step, yup, that was me. But I was making progress again, gradually making my way through the field, mostly the marathon field but I also started to reel in quite a few ultra runners as well as the miles passed by, always with some mutual words of encouragement. We were all in this together.

This was tough, definitely, but in all honesty it was going better than expected. I definitely had thought I would be battling tooth and nail with my cramping calves by now, but they behaved pretty well. I did notice one stark contrast to years gone by, however. I am used to weaving my way through the massed ranks of the half marathon on this stretch, and today there was just a sparse sprinkling of marathon runners left, which made for a very different experience. The running itself, however, felt just as tough, despite the slower pace.

Having said that, progress was much better than I could have hoped for. I had found the level of discomfort I was able to tolerate and got into a groove, steadily making my way towards the finish. The mile signs kept appearing reasonably quickly and with each sign I knew I was getting a good bit closer to the end. It was just a matter of keeping going, never mind that moaning noise I kept producing with each breath.

Knowing the area pretty well I kept seeing glimpses of the Hell from way back, and before I really knew it I was already at the bridge in Maam, and shortly after that the climb started. One thing to add, by the time I got there they had already run out of sports drink both in Leenane as well as in Maam, which wasn't great. Basically, it means that the one group of runners who might need some sustenance the most, the ultra runners, aren't getting any. Yeah, not great. Thankfully I had some carbs in my own pockets (some chews, from some goody bag from a race gone past that I happened to find in the cupboard when packing my bag the day before, and I never bothered to check the expiry date) and they made a massive difference. Every time I got some sugar I got a little boost that kept me going for another couple of miles, and by the time I was running out of them I was close enough to finish to keep running on fumes alone.

The Hell of the West was definitely the one place where I had been absolutely convinced my calves would be in full cramping mode, but somehow they were still working away perfectly fine, despite the 35 miles I had already covered by now. I cannot explain why that was the case. I had been so convinced that I would be cramping today that I had started to wonder if that negative attitude would actually bring on a cramp (the head works funnily in running, especially in ultra running), but that was obviously not the case. And unlike the earlier hill I had a handle on this one, I kept running and passing a lot of runners (including the back end of the half marathon by now). Having said that, the climb seemed to go on forever, there was always another turn when you thought you were on the last one, and another steep bit when you thought it was flattening out, but after an age of sisyphean effort we actually made it to the top, well past the 37 mile marker, which I had mistakenly expected to mark the top.

In theory you can see the finish from the top, but not if you're as short-sighted as me and not wearing glasses because you expected it to rain for the full 6 hours. Never mind, I knew where it was and I still knew the road towards the finish pretty damn well - a mile of downhill that feels pretty quick and a flat mile to the finish that keeps going on forever. I was still in reasonable shape, passed a few more runners and actually posted one of my faster miles today, and then, a very long time after starting, crossed the finish line in 6:06.

The time was pretty much what I had expected, though for much of the race the effort I had put in had felt faster than the pace I was actually able to churn out. The last 13 miles had taken me 2:13, contrast that to the 1:41 the same stretch had taken me 5 years earlier, though I can say with all honesty that today's effort had been at least at the same level, it's just the result that was different.

However, I was actually pretty happy about the race. I am still amazed about the fact that I had no problem with cramps today, and I really cannot explain why not, I wish I could. I am just as happy about the effort I put in, it was an equally honest effort as I used to produce in my competitive days and I could not have asked for any more. That mile coming out of Leenane had cost me a potential sub-6 finish but I just had not been able to run that hill, and scraping home under 6 hours would still have been my slowest Connemara time ever, so not really much of a difference.

I missed being greeted by Ray at the finish line, that's something that won't happen again, which is a shame, though I cannot fault the present organisers for any of their efforts, it is still a first rate race and one of the best in the country. I have the sneaking suspicion that I might be back for more.

14 Apr

Connemara Ultra

39.3 miles, 6:06:41, 9:19 pace, HR 142

I Keep Forgetting How Much I Hate 5Ks

We had a chat on Thursday at work about running and I mentioned that the only 2 times I got injured in the last 10 years were when I did something really stupid, the last one 2 years ago when I ran a fast workout a week after a long race and duly messed up my right Achilles for weeks to come.

So, when I got ready a few hours later to run the Sandyford 5k, it struck me that I was doing something very, very similar to that very same stupidity, a 5K only 11 days after a marathon, on legs that had clearly not recovered yet.

What can I say? I’m an idiot, something I have proven on plenty of occasions in the past, and like most idiots I get away with my idiocy on many occasions, so I was hoping for some more good fortune. The race was very close to work, and work had paid for the entry fee, so why not accept the Danaergeschenk?

I wasn’t planning on racing all out, in fact with the combination of increasingly old age, tired legs and lack of competitive instinct I was contemplating the possibility of running my slowest 5K ever.

Just like the previous 5K it started to rain just before the start but unlike that one it stopped again and the conditions were pretty decent. Remembering the very painful 20 minutes from my last 5K I decided to start at a more measured effort in the hope of a less torturous event. In actual fact I was only 5 second slower on the first mile, though it was slightly downhill. The rest of the race was marked by me trying to remain at the same effort level, which I thought I did reasonably well, passing a few runner, being passed by others but overall moving slightly ahead in the field. I struggled on all uphills and kept drifting backwards but I was flying effortlessly on the downhills and always made up a fair few places (neither was steep though - it was a pretty decent course). All the while I kept the effort at no more than maybe 95%, fast enough to put some pain on the system but never too much. However, the watch claims that I slowed down to almost 7-minute pace on the last mile, which came as a bit of a surprise, to be honest.

I got to within 100 meters of the finish line when my right Achilles suddenly started to hurt, and by that I mean REALLY hurt. It was close enough to the finish to clench the teeth and keep going but I was really sore afterwards. Also, it started raining again, so eventually I decided not to go to the post-race tent afterwards but head home instead.

I pathetically hobbled for a mile back to the office with a seriously gampy right leg and the cycle back home wasn’t particularly comfortable either, so by now I was rather worried. The next day was different, I was no longer in real pain but both Achilles were incredibly stiff, and for the entire day I was reduced to hobble slowly through the office whenever I had to move, feeling every single one of my many years for a change. I didn’t run, even I can see that it would have been a daft idea, but with the pain subsiding overnight I’m reasonably optimistic I might actually have gotten away with yet another stupidity.

20:36 was not my slowest 5K by a long shot, but on the other hand it IS almost 3 minutes slower than my PB. Ah well.

26 Sep

4+ miles, 34:12, 8:21 pace, HR 146

27 Sep

5+ miles, including Sandyford 5K in 20:36, 6:37 pace, HR 174

28 Sep

0

Take My Breath Away

I had signed up for the Berlin marathon last year as a bit of fun, not really expecting to get through the lottery because that's what I'm used to from London, but I did and so I was committed all of a sudden. Obviously Berlin is known as a very fast course but with Irding a few months earlier I always knew that I was not going to be chasing a PB. However, I had not expected to be in quite as bad a shape as I turned out to be, and to be honest I wasn't overly enthusiastic about the trip, especially after Niamh decided not to come after all. However, I was signed up and didn't want to miss out on the chance of running another Major, so off I went.

Travelling was worse than expected because the plane left Dublin an hour late, making me miss my connecting flight in Cologne (together with about a dozen other fit and slim looking people) and I got to Berlin 4 hours late, but hey, I made it and I had all of Saturday to get acclimatised.

The Expo was big but I managed to avoid spending any money, and I did some sightseeing before relaxing back in my room. I knew I had most likely spent a bit more time on my feet than ideal but I don't expect to get to spend time in Berlin any time soon and hey, it's just a marathon.

Sunday dawned and I got ready, as I have a hundred times before. The race is exceptionally well organised, as it has to be for such a large field, and I found myself in corral C, my assigned place, though I felt a bit out of place as I had no intentions of running fast so I stood right at the very back, with a few others obviously in the same situation, and when they removed the rope between corrals right before the start I let the runners from Corral D pass me as well.

Still, the start didn't seem far from where I was standing, so I'm a bit surprised it took me 2 minutes to cross the start line. Then there was the big unknown. What pace was I supposed to run at?

Putting the time of my 5k a last week into a calculator would have predicted a 3:15-3:20 marathon but I always knew that was not on the cards. What I remembered most was when I ran Dingle as a 3:30 pacer all the way back in 2011, after taking it very easy during the summer and my longest run being a solitary 15 miler and having no problems with that pace even on a tough course, so I hoped, foolishly maybe, that something similar might be on the cards again. 8-minute miles seemed very easy at the start, though I knew full well that this was a very poor indicator of how it would go later on.

The pace felt easy enough but I was sweating profusely and felt very hot. I actually wished I would have worn a singlet but that was a bit late now. I made sure to drink at each water station, which added up to a lot of water, but felt absolutely necessary today. It felt a lot better in the shade, and after a while there appeared a few clouds in the sky that took away the worst sting of direct sunlight.

The first 5 or so miles passed by without a hitch, but with that being the typical distance I have run recently I was all too soon in almost unknown territory, and by mile 7 or 8 I was already in trouble. The hamstrings felt very heavy and with not even a third of the race distance covered I knew I was in for a very tough day, so the theme for rest of the race was damage limitation.

I eased up the pace, easy as it had been all along, ignoring the thousands of runners gradually streaming past me. It didn't help much, the legs just got worse and worse and I got slower and slower. I'm not sure how to really describe the rest of the race because the previous sentence pretty much says it all. By halfway I was already a couple of minutes behind 3:30 pac and of course it only got worse and worse. My 5k splits really tell the entire story:

split    overall    diff     min/km   km/h
5 km     0:24:41    24:41    04:57    12.16
10 km    0:49:44    25:03    05:01    11.98
15 km    1:15:14    25:31    05:07    11.76
20 km    1:41:20    26:06    05:14    11.50
Halb     1:47:11    05:51    05:20    11.27
25 km    2:09:03    21:52    05:37    10.71
30 km    2:37:00    27:58    05:36    10.73
35 km    3:05:27    28:27    05:42    10.55
40 km    3:37:02    31:36    06:20    9.50
Finish   3:49:59    12:58    05:55    10.17

There was no big disaster, no hitting the wall, no point of no return, just a gradual deterioration with the legs getting worse and worse, the pain getting more and more unbearable and the pace getting slower and slower. I had a mini reprieve at 25 km, when I took a caffeine tablet and managed to hold the same pace for another 5k, but when I tried to take my next one I realised I had none left. I was stumped, I thought I had put a few into my bag but apparently not, and so I just had to make it to the finish without a caffeine shot.

At some point the quads took over as the worst of the muscles, and I barely could lift my legs any more. This resembled the final miles of an ultra, not a marathon.

The last 4 miles were an almost complete disaster when I slowed down to 10-minute miles, which is slower than I ran in that 100 k in April! I was actually surprised by how few people were walking - I'm sure the ratio of walkers late in the race is a magnitude higher in Dublin. Never mind, at least I managed to run all the way to the finish, even if it was crawling at snails pace.

I remember running down a very, very long road with a Coca Cola sign very far in the distance, over a mile away, and wondered if we would have to run all the way to there. As it turned out we did not have to make it quite that far but it wasn't far off. There were a few more turns and eventually we did yet another left turn and there was the Brandenburg Gate. Oh! thank! Fuck! for! that!

It was actually still about a kilometre to the finish from there because the finish is still a fair distance from the Gate itself, so don't think you're done just yet. But having come all the way we managed the rest as well. I crossed the line in a dismal 3:49:59 (provisional time) and swore to myself I was done with running, once and for all (admittedly not exactly for the first time).

Well, what can I say? In June I paced 3:30 in Cork and felt so comfortable at the finish I was almost tempted to go for a second lap. A week earlier I had run a mountainous trail marathon faster than today. I've run back-to-back marathon on the murderous Howth course faster than that. I've run ultras faster than that.

This used to be a lot more fun!

Ok, I'll stop whining now.

I know I suffered because of the low training mileage since Irdning, and this time apparently my base fitness was not enough to carry me round the course in reasonable shape. The thing is, I didn't run low mileage because I couldn't be arsed to train more - I ran low mileage because I had been waiting for the legs to finally come round again, and they never did.

So, right now I'm unsure what the better option would be - try higher mileage training again, at easy pace obviously, and let the legs get stronger, or go the complete opposite way and take a complete break from running for several months, let the muscles recover, and eventually start again from scratch.

16 Sep

Berlin marathon

3:49:59, 8:46 pace (8:38 on the watch), HR 152

The Immeasurable Fun Of The 5K

As I was standing on the start line of the Grant Thornton Corporate 5K Team Challenge, I was a bit apprehensive. I had not done any fast running in months, apart from a few strides or hill sprints, but those are over in a matter of seconds, so not really comparable. I had worn out my legs on Sunday during my long run. I had REALLY worn out my legs two months ago at the 24 hours race in Irding. And most of all, I was never particularly fond of racing 5Ks. I much prefer the slow burn pain of the marathon (and beyond) to the acid burn of the fast stuff. But when Dave at work had asked ages ago who was up to run as part of a team from work, I put my name down. And here I was.

Most of all I hoped I would not completely embarrass myself. Despite not having a clue what time I would be able to run I had put myself into the first wave for runners up to 20 minutes (and wave 2 started from 21 upwards, so I guess they meant up to 20:59 for us), especially since I know perfectly well that way too many people cheat in that game.

It was drizzly up to 5 minutes before the start, and then it started raining properly. It meant I had chosen the wrong option by wearing my glasses - I wasn't going to see much. By the time we finally started it was raining really heavily and we were soaked to the bone, and we had not even started yet.

I know it was raining heavily at the start, and not at all at the finish. However, I can't tell you if the rain stopped within a minute of us starting or if it kept raining until right at the end - my perception of that was turned off completely as soon as racing started.

The course was right in the city centre along the quays, crossing the Liffey three times, and included quite a few sharp turns, which didn't feel entirely safe with so many runners on a slippery surface. The roads are in shocking state really, especially considering this is right in the centre of the capital, with just one single downpour leaving parts completely waterlogged. The shocking state of infrastructure in this shithole really pisses me off at times!

Sorry - the race. I have completely forgotten how to race a 5K, and of course started way too fast. That kind of stuff never bodes well - the first mile was not yet done when I was already desperately wishing this to be over. I did ease up a bit and a few people went past me, but I was still hurting and breathing through a thin straw. My exercise-induced asthma made itself known as well, not as bad as on some occasions in the past but enough to be a nuisance. My sense of distance had completely gone as well. We did a 180 degree turn and I thought we were heading straight to the finish (hey, this 5k isn't so bad after all) when the course suddenly veered right over a bridge (oh fuck, this is bad after all), and the uphill section of that bridge wasn't helping either. The same happened once more, I thought we were finally heading for home only for another sharp turn to come up. I always slowed down a touch on the turns because I would not trust the surface, but that didn't make much difference to my time.

A bigger issue was my distinct lack of desire to put the hurt all the way to 10; it was maybe an 8 or a 9, but definitely not maxed out. Even out on the road I was kind of pissed off with myself for the lack of willingness to suffer properly, and yet it still hurt like hell. Anyway, after a lifetime of deep pain and with me just about losing the will to live, we finally crossed the Liffey for the last time and then there was the finish just a quarter mile ahead of us, which still felt far away at the time but we got there. 20 minutes had come and gone, ah well, and I finished in 20:29. Good God, that bloody hurt, even though I hadn't put everything into it. Just imagine if I had!

The watch had measured the course way long at 3.2 miles, which is the longest I have ever seen in a 5k. The watch actually had me at sub-20 pace. I know a GPS isn't accurate enough to make definite statement but I'm still pretty sure this was long, possibly by more than 100 meters.

I can't fault the general organisation, though. It was excellent and all went smoothly, which is quite impressive with the number of runners on show.

With me being soaking wet I got cold immediately and wasn't hanging around, so I cycled home, which served as a hell of a cool down. The next day I felt pretty good initially but got quite sore after a while, and my recovery run at lunch time was slow, stiff and awkward. I was actually glad to have the option of a standing desk, as that felt a lot more comfortable than sitting down. Figure that one out.

3 Sep

5+ miles, 43:09, 8:32 pace, HR 140

4 Sep

0

5 Sep

4+ miles, incl. 5K(+) race in 20:29, 6:23 pace, HR 172

6 Sep

4+ miles, 37:01, 9:05 pace, HR 141

Under His Eye

Caution: This race reports contains some amount of swearing. It would not be authentic otherwise. If that kind of thing offends you, better fuck off right now.

Yes, that was BEFORE the start

I had been planning to run the 24 hrs race in Irdning for a long time. It is the annual venue of the Austrian championships, and despite having lived away for half my life, that’s still my passport. Also, race reports have generally been very positive, from the excellent organisation to the stunning views and the phenomenal crowd support. At some point I had to give it a go. With the World Championships being held here next year, why not now?

The journey from Ireland was not without hiccups but didn’t really add to the stress. We got to Bad Aussee, about half an hour’s drive from Irdning, late Wednesday evening and had all Thursday and most of Friday to relax. Race start was Friday 7 pm, quite a similar time to what Belfast used to be, which suited me just fine.

I met all my (previous?) team mates from the Austrian national team there, including some who had by now retired and were just running for fun, but also some new and upcoming talents. The vibe was very friendly and relaxed, though I got a bit tense as the start time approached. I knew I was in for a lot of pain.

Training had been … strange. At first it all went phenomenally well. I felt better week by week and could see improvements at an almost incredible rate. However, it seemed to hit a block when I ran the 100k on Easter Sunday. The race itself was challenging but had gone reasonably well, I was happy with how the legs had coped, I wasn’t particularly sore afterwards, but the HR numbers never fully recovered. Once immediate recovery was done, the legs felt perfectly fine but somehow the numbers were significantly worse. I wasn’t worried at the time. I still had 3 months until the race, seemingly plenty of time for full recovery. Alas, full recovery never came.

I also started tracking my HRV, which is supposed to be a great tool to track recovery, but somehow that failed to raise an alarm. My HRV numbers were always good, in fact they were in the green zone so much it seemed to indicate I was undertraining. In hindsight I think I can call that a failed experiment.

Still, at that point things were still pretty positive. But then I ran 3 marathons in 4 weeks. That didn’t ring any alarm bells for me. In fact, even now I don’t see much wrong with it as such, I have had much harder training blocks in the past. But now, with the benefit of hindsight, it seemed to push me over the edge. I ran all those marathons very relaxed, never pushing the effort even close to race pace. I felt good throughout. I was perfectly comfortable at all times, including the late miles. I was not sore afterwards. However, after the Cork marathons my hamstrings and glutes started to feel wrong. Very stiff. A little bit ... well, painful is the wrong word, just not quite right. It was worse on the right leg, but both were affected. And it never got right again.

So, here I was, at the start of a 24 hours race, knowing that something was not right. I could have pulled out but that was never an option I would have considered. I decided to give it a go. See how the legs would cope. I have gone into races not feeling quite right and ended up surprising myself. Admittedly, not 24 hour races. Anyway, I was going to give it a go.

I did not put myself under any pressure. I did not feel the need to prove that I’m an international class runner. If the legs did not cooperate, I’d just have to accept that and deal with it. Just do what you can.

I started at a very comfortable effort. I was slightly ahead of my average PB pace, but that’s normal. Everyone I know starts a 24 hour race a bit too fast. Ok, there are exceptions but I can count them on one hand and still have some spare fingers. In fact, I was probably starting slower than in any 24 race before. Looking at the early mile splits now, there are a couple of 8:40 miles, definitely too fast, but in fact it looks a lot more reasonable and conservative than in my other 24 hour races, including my best races. Honestly, that should have been fine.

In general, I felt very comfortable, as you should. However, the hamstrings were off, just like for all my other runs in the last 4 weeks. In the early hours that didn’t bother me, at so slow a pace some stiff muscles aren’t much of an issue.

Much more worrying was the fact that my stomach did not feel good right from the very first sip I took of my sports drink. It felt almost like heartburn, though not severe. That was a nasty and totally unexpected surprise. I have used that sports drink plenty of times before and never had an issue with it. I kind of expected to get sick of it after many hours but definitely not from the very start. At first I forced them down, but after a few hours I couldn’t do that any more. I started sipping it in very small amounts but even that became unbearable. In fact, it wasn’t just the sports drink. The mere thought of anything sweet almost made me gag – including the coke or sweets at the official aid station, or the gels I had brought myself. The one thing I could eat were my potatoes (ah yes, my claim to fame) but even with them I had to limit myself to only 1 small potato every hour, or even less.

In short, within only a few hours I was pretty much running on empty.

I passed the marathon mark in about 4:15 or so. That’s a bit uncertain because I noticed that my watch started to overestimate the distance right from the off. Exactly the same had happened in Belfast last year, but at least this time round I knew about it and noticed it straight away, so it didn’t come as a nasty shock when my actual distance was significantly less (well over 5% discrepancy) than what the watch had promised me. It doesn’t seem to cope well with 10 seconds GPS intervals, even though you’d think that should be reasonably fine on a course without any tight turns.

At that point I was still feeling perfectly fine. The same at 50k. Then things started to unravel.

Already! I was still in the early phase of the race. I knew I would be feeling tired at that point because it was past midnight and usually I’d be fast asleep by now. However, I was definitely feeling worse than anticipated. I started a run/walk regime. That was pre-planned. Instead of pushing, pushing, pushing until I could not push any more, as I had done in Albi or Belfast the last 2 years, I had planned to pull it back a bit and try to recover somewhat. 5 minutes walking, 25 minutes running. There is some scientific backup for a 5:1 run/walk ratio according to Bernd Heinrich, which is good enough for me. At first that seemed to work. 5 minutes of walking seemed to be just the right amount of time I needed. The legs (the hamstrings, really) felt pretty bad for the first 3-4 minutes of each walk and then they’d loosen up and I’d feel ready to tackle another running stint.

At that point I have to say thanks to Shea, my 17-year old, who did the graveyard shift in crewing. To be honest, he did not have to do much because I could not stomach anything, so the only thing he really had to do was to hand me my jacket when it started raining and hang it back inside our gazebo when the rain stopped. Oh, and voice the occasional encouragement (we can still work on improving that one).

Ah yes, the rain. If someone had predicted that between the Belfast and Irdning races, 1 week apart this year, there would be one with a heat wave in the high 20s and one with several massive rain showers, nobody would have batted an eyelid because we had been there before. However, nobody would have predicted that Belfast would see the heat wave and Irdning the deluge. It remined me of my first 24 hour race in Bangor. Sections of the course were completely waterlogged. Some runners ran on the grass verge, though I think that was silly, the feet would get just as wet as by running right through the puddles. A small section at the start/finish line was not tarmacked and was full of potholes; you had to mind your footing on the uneven surface though it was only a few meters each time.

I joked that that kind of weather was going to give me some home advantage, being more than used to running in the Irish rain. However, with my legs acting up and my stomach refusing almost any kind of food being able to cope with rain didn’t make any real difference.

Apart from the 24 hours race, they also had a few other events going. There was a 12 hours race, which started Saturday 7 am, so basically for the second half of our race. However, far more noticeable were the relays, including teams of 4 and teams of 12(!!!). Especially the 12-man/woman teams were moving much, much faster than the 24 hour runners, and I think they kept swapping after each lap. Even in the late hours there were runners that were basically sprinting. To be honest, that’s not ideal, the difference in speed could easily cause an accident (which has happened in past years), though on the other hand the non-running relay team-members and their support crews are creating a brilliant atmosphere all throughout the course. In fact, for crowd support this was by far the best I’ve ever seen in a 24 hours race; rather than run in our little isolated world for much of the race there was always a buzz around the place, even in the rain, even in the early hours of morning.

My own race, however, had totally fallen apart as the night wore on. The walk breaks might have pushed out the breaking point by a bit but they did not prevent it. At first I was having highs and lows in very quick successions, as quickly as within one single lap, but the highs started to disappear. I started to feel much better when the rain subsided and I took off my jacket (I must have gotten too warm in it, despite being wet) but that was only a temporary reprieve.

It should not have taken me 12 hours to run 100 km. When I ran my 100k in Easter, on a course with considerably worse footing and steadily increasing headwind throughout the second half, I ran 100k in well under 10 hours. And felt reasonably fine. So why had it just taken me 2 hours longer, and why was I completely exhausted? Even the lack of food does not explain this, because that 100k had not been ideal either with the aid stations being 10 miles apart. So why now? Why, why, why?

A few of my Austrian team mates had already called it a day. Heinz, the early leader, left after issues with his blood pressure (I think). Ulli had left very early on. Georg had looked very strong for a good few hours but eventually started to crawl, moving even slower than I was, and pulled out as well.

Why didn’t I? I kept telling anyone that I was too stupid to stop. That’s one part of it. I’m also very weary to start doing that because stopping can easily become a habit, and then you start pulling out of a race whenever things get tough, and then you can forget about 24 hour races.

The walk break got longer, the run stints got shorter. And slower. And MUCH shorter.

Niamh came back; it might have been around 6 or 7 o’clock. She brought some grapes, and by some miracle I was able to eat them. It was the first time I had eaten anything other than some soup (which doesn’t contain any real amount of calories) for far too many hours. It was too late to safe my race but at least it made me feel better. She eventually managed to source some more fruit and I ate some peaches, nectarines and grapes. Again, it wasn’t enough energy to sustain a race but it sure was a lot better than nothing at all.

“You look a lot brighter now”
“No, I’m still a fucking idiot”
“Well, ... yes”

Last year in Belfast I ended up walking for virtually the entire second half when the legs just would not run any more. It was different today. I kept running, not much and certainly not fast, but I kept running. There were times when the legs were so dead I could not imagine being able to run even a single step but then, half an hour later, I felt better again and could run, maybe for a lap or 2, but I could still run.

Niamh was still there, trying to help even if I was beyond help.

“Is there anything you’d like?”
“I guess a shag is out of the question?”
… she didn’t dignify that with an answer. Ah come on! It never hurts to ask to treat a bleak situation with a bit of humour.

The area has its own interesting micro climate. It had stopped raining at some stage of the night. When it got bright again I could often see very dark clouds surrounding the nearby mountain overlooking the race course, the Grimming, and in fact I could see it rain just a few km from here, but most of the time the clouds did not make it over to us. We had 2 or 3 rather short rain showers to contend with but from about 12 o’clock on it was a very sunny, warm day. Due to yesterday’s weather it was very humid, which would not have been ideal for racing, but as I was already moving so slowly it didn’t make any difference to me, I think.

With 6 hours to go they started yet another event, a kids’ relay. I must say I am surprised that they send out young kids for such a long time. Even with a relay (maybe 12 per team? Not sure) that can add up to a decent amount of distance for some of them. However, their enthusiasm definitely added to the atmosphere, both when they were running and when they were shouting their heads off from the sidelines.

I fell in step with Kurt, who was doing his first 24 hours race. Apparently he had begged his crew to let him pull out at some stage during the night but quickly got sent out again, and there he was (he didn’t tell me that, his crew did). We chatted for a good while. At some stage I made a joke about how good it was that at least there were others around suffering even more than we were. Justice was swift and harsh. I tried running again but very quickly had to abort the attempt, and that was that. I seemed to have ripped apart the last of my working muscle fibres and from now on I could not even walk properly. As slow as my lap times had been, they completely fell off a cliff at that point from 13 minute laps to 19 minute laps, and several even slower. I didn’t know it was even possible to walk that slowly! That was with about 3 hours still left, and for those last 3 hours I was pretty much the slowest person out there.

Despite the fact that my hamstrings had been the troublemakers early on, during the second half it was definitely the quads that were acting up worse, so maybe those hamstring/glute issues had been a red herring? I really do not know.

I thought about pulling out. What was I doing there? A respectable distance had been out of reach even hours ago. And yet I kept torturing myself. I reasoned that stopping would hurt just as much so I might as well keep going. And I knew that if I pulled out, once the race was over I would have been angry with myself for quitting needlessly. When is it ok to pull out of a race? When you’re sick, when you’re injured, and when you might be able to save yourself for a better day. I had none of those reasons, and feeling tired doesn’t count. So I kept going.

Niamh tried to get a video of me swearing I’d never run another 24 hours race, and she almost got it, but I just about managed not to say it.

The race around me kept going of course. Apart from some early flyers, my old team mates Heinz and Andi had been the early leaders (they would have been the favourites). Heinz pulled out, I did not even get the chance to say bye. Andi kept going and going and going but with 8 hours to go he looked cooked, which surprised me. Rene, a trail runner on his first 24 hour race, had put in a great shift but was faltering badly eventually, which could have been the long hours or the unaccustomed hard surface, or both. There were just 2 runners on the male side that kept looking strong: Klemens and Günther. Klemens had 3 advantages on his side: One, he is a very talented runner, the Austrian record holder over 12 hours, though it had taken him a long time and several failed attempts to translate that into 24 hours. Two, his wife is a great ultra runner herself as well as a top physio, which is the best crew you could possibly ask for. And three, he clearly is the brainiest ultra runner in country, knowing exactly how to race, and how not to race, unlike the rest of us. He was nowhere near the top for most of the race, plodding his way unnoticed and unheralded, until everyone else was faltering and suffering and then he powered through the field, untouchable and unstoppable, and a very worthy champion. On the female side, young Sabrina had clearly learned from a painful lesson in Belfast last year and powered to the Austrian championships despite troubles with her achilles earlier on, but what are a few tears for a tough ultrarunner like that? Congratulations! Oh, and the overall female winner, Nenu Mariana, had always been in full control of the race, though I didn’t manage to speak to her, owing to some language barriers, but we’ll see her again next year for the Worlds.

The end is nigh

I cannot help but look at the results, wistfully thinking that I have run distances right up there with the best of them.

The kids from the relay got a bit boisterous at times, which I didn’t mind, it added to the atmosphere. At one time a boy, maybe about 10 or 12, shouted at me “Thomas, Du bist a hoarte Sau” which roughly translates to “Thomas, you’re one tough MF”, which definitely got a grin back on my face, though I’m sure his mum would not have approved.

What more can I say? Eventually, 24 hours had passed. When the siren sounded we stopped, though it was so quiet that some runners at the other end of the course had to be told. It seemed to take an absolute age for the measuring wheel, which gives you the final distance with the last partial lap, to come by.

My earlier theory that stopping would hurt just as much as keeping going proved to be pretty much on the mark, because I was still in the same world of hurt. In fact, the drive home was rather awful, with me basically screaming in pain half the time, and it wasn’t because of Niamh’s driving!

Two days later my hands are back to normal shape, my legs are still hurting and the feet are still so swollen that I don’t have any ankles.

I’ll try and spend some time figuring out what had gone so wrong but right now I’m stumped. It looks like I was overtrained but I had been training much harder on occasions in past years and gotten into great shape. Running a 100k in April was a mistake in hindsight but before my 2014 race I had run a 100k with 5 weeks to go and some other tough races as well and had gotten into the best shape of my life. Running 3 marathons in 4 weeks seems to have pushed me over the edge but I have done significantly harder training blocks in the past. To me, all those supposed mistakes only reveal themselves with the benefit of hindsight. Until 4 weeks ago, the legs had felt pretty good, even if the HR had been elevated. The HRV figures had always been good. I simply don’t know how I would have predicted the training mistakes in advance.

Then again, there is more to it than just that one race, and just that one training cycle. Have a look at the distance covered in my last six 24 hour races:

225, 215, 207, 189, 185, 170

That is a horrendous decline that cannot be explained by getting older. There is something more fundamental going on here.

Let's not end it on such a downer, so at least have a look at how I'm spending my recovery.

Hot tub with a view

I ran for 24 hours and all I got was ...

29/30 Jun

Austrian 24 hrs Championships, Irdning

170.5132 km / 105.952 miles

18th place overall, 6th M40