Wrapped snugly in my embarrassingly floral dressing gown with a recently washed and disgruntled dog wrapped around my shoulders, I am feeling pretty comfortable, in the physical sense, anyway. What is rather uncomfortably occupying my mind is the day I have had. My day isn’t really a patch on what the racers went through. Continue reading
Respectfully, I ask, of course.
20 miles is a long way to run. No matter how you look at it, it’s a daunting prospect. Strangely it’s the one detail of Rat Race Dirty Weekend that I allowed to slip from my consciousness until mere days beforehand. It seemed obvious that I was going to have a great time socially, what with the vast majority of my OCR pals being in attendance. It was a given that the three legged race, and dance tent were going to be a riot. The fact that I had never run 20 miles in my LIFE was conveniently filed somewhere behind all of that fun in my brain. Continue reading
I’m lucky in many respects. One of the things that I count myself fortunate for is my circle of friends, acquaintances, run buddies and, not least, the people who see potential in me.
It is a slightly alien feeling for me to feel wanted and included; yet another deep seated issue that isn’t worth explaining because I know many other with anxiety know that feeling inside out. That’s why it has been so important to me, and so fulfilling to be part of Mudstacle. Part of the reason why my race reviews on my own site have been sporadic and late, is because I’m reviewing them over there, and it’s a little difficult to review the same thing twice without boring myself to tears.
So, for your interest, I reviewed the Major Series South over on Mudstacle, and if you fancy reading that, go right ahead. TL;DR, it was really fun.
Toughest is the fastest rising brand of obstacle races in Europe, there’s no doubt about it. From the UK, we’ve already been jetting off to Malmö to train at the Toughest LAB (chat about that to follow), getting into a little bit of Euro-tourism on their runs in Copenhagen, Oslo etc., and we’ve been very lucky to play host to the first non-Scandi Toughest race in Pippingford Park.
To quickly recap – Toughest prioritise obstacle competency, technique and tactics over the rather more British OCR concept of mud and endurance. Their Euro mainland races appear clinical and, if anything, clean, emphasising the need for upper body and most of all, grip strength.
As far as obstacle completion goes, you can opt to take a faster (harder/more technical lane) to make up time, you can complete the obstacle and an additional crawl, or you can take a penalty run or carry. To ‘fail’ an obstacle at Toughest is not to lose a band, or get disqualified. No arguments, no concerns over skipped burpees, you do your extra jog and you get on with it. It seems complicated, but it is in fact quite beautiful in its simplicity, and it doesn’t make you feel demeaned or less of a racer for being unable to do something on the day. That said, the obstacles are largely attainable, particularly if you have sensibly focussed on grip strength and holding your bodyweight. That’s not to say I did everything perfectly, but I certainly didn’t leave feeling deflated as I have from recent races and training sessions.
Toughest was hosted at Pippingford Park, which is just the most breath taking, versatile and interesting venue I’ve ever attended. The fact that so many races can put on events there, and they all seem different is testament to the unparalleled terrain available. And when used properly, the running doesn’t make me want to chop my own legs off, which is really saying something.
Parking is always a bit sketchy in marshy/field venues, but it was very well spaced and organised, and set up so that cars didn’t have to poach the land to exit – there was a designated exit on a downhill, and it worked so well despite a massive attendance and quite spongey ground. This sort of business always puts you in a good headspace, and the mood was only buoyed when the event village came into sight. Organised like a ski resort restaurant, and complete with designated stores, food kiosks and team tents, the area was very well designed – the course also fed into it at several points, allowing for spectators to safely observe and encourage racers all day long. The ground was definitely hit hard by the end of the day, but it was probably the best event village (spacious yet social) I’ve ever seen. The MC wasn’t obnoxious either, which always makes me happy. A big screen counted down to wave times, which continued long into the day at 5 minute intervals, to stagger starts and avoid bottlenecking at obstacles (essential since the first obstacle was single digit metres into the race).
Regarding registration, Toughest take precisely zero shit on that front. All you have to do is know your race number and sign the waivers. Then you’re numbered, tagged, and ready to go. I think something that was quite unsettling for the UK OCR lot was that wave times were allocated, and like it or lump it, you ran at your designated time. This could have been potentially disastrous for me, as I had to go to work after the race, but I was fortunate to be in an earlier wave. I always feel desperately sorry at the idea of having to go off onto a colder, more poached and less populated course at the tail end of the day, but a few of the Mudstacle lot ran a very late wave and still had a good time, so perhaps my worries were unfounded.
After a thankfully unceremonious start (because I am far too British to really get into this running around hi-fiving each other and holding hands during warm ups), we were straight into a cargo net, which, in a most undignified way, I fell down. I felt a lot of pressure from my cohort, as there were some seriously strong girls who had obviously been imported for the purpose of looking scary and dominating at obstacles. Sadly, we did enter into a bit of a log jam as some faltered on the swing traverse, leaving those of us behind them just hanging there (literally) waiting for something to happen. I ended up traversing backwards to allow the stuck girls ahead a bit more swing, but felt really happy about my grip strength. The first obstacle to stump and disappoint was a wall traverse. It had broken on one side, and it was quite busy on the other sections. My head got the better of me, and I opted for a penalty run rather than to stand around, get cold and probably fail it anyway. I don’t even mind, really. Most of the other ‘big’ obstacles I completed (with surprise, if I’m honest), and I couldn’t stop my little internal celebration over striking the balance between fun and competence.
The only other major ‘disappointment’ on course was the closure of the slide, but if I’m wholly honest, it didn’t look safe enough to cater to almost 4000 runners, and I applaud the decision of the organisers to get it shut down at the first hint of bother. An early waver had grasped at the tarp covering and ripped it. And frankly, if it couldn’t handle the wear and tear of less than ten people going over it, with varying and bizarre trajectories off the edge, it shouldn’t be in a race, so as sad as I was to miss out on the experience, and to run the penalty uphill slog, I am totally okay with it having been shut for safety reasons.
Other, brilliant obstacles such as the monkey bars, rigs, rings, ring traverses, rope climb, hoist and Irish table etc. were really well constructed, and I felt fantastic to conquer things that I would previously have failed or simply balked at. Several over-unders and random walls were dotted around the beautiful forest trails so as not to make us feel that we were on a ‘run’. Even the Dragon’s Back, a previously pretty simple obstacle for me seemed really daunting on the day, which is a testament to the atmosphere the organisers had created. It was decidedly less sturdy than the version built at the OCRWC, and I am not ashamed to say that I needed some encouragement from pals on the ground to put on my big girl pants and leap it. It’s such a good obstacle, exercising the mind more than the body, in fact – if there was a race full of these brain-jarring types of obstacles, I’d be all over it.
I didn’t wear a GPS watch to run Toughest. I’m glad, as my pace would have depressed me, and it’s not, thankfully, a runner’s race. I also got a bone splitting headache at KM5 and spent the final half of the race dividing my time between marvelling at how much I was enjoying myself, and trying not to throw up from the pain in my head. I eventually managed to scout an ambulance and get them to feed me pain relief, but the damage had already been done, and my vision started to flicker on and off, which was utterly horrifying. I get a lot of headaches, and this one was absolutely metabolic in origin and largely my fault, although I think there ought to have been one more water stop on the course.
Finally getting into the event village for the last time, I was pretty relieved, but also totally unable to lower my head, so my priority was to get some water and salt into my system to stop myself passing out. I did take a break from cursing myself and my constant string of ailments to really take in what I had achieved with the help of innovative obstacle building, great LAB coaching, and a good deal of work on my grip. Toughest delivered an unforgettable and stand-out race, and I’m desperate to do more, particularly on their home turf where they are more used to staging races, and can do it ‘their way’.
The UK OCR scene needed a shake up; we needed to see how other international brands could keep racing fresh and fair. Some of our local organisations, I feel, have lost sight of that, and I think it’s vitally important to challenge the best athletes whilst including the newbies and fun runners – that’s very difficult to do on one course over one day, but Toughest managed it.
I knew, however, I absolutely knew that a lot of UK runners would hate it. I thought there’d be a furore over the lack of control over wave times, the more clinical nature of the obstacles, the technical requirements, and the decision not to give out free race shirts. True to form, there’s been a lot of chat about this, and a rather damning criticism that Toughest ‘created hype’ and didn’t deliver to our high expectations. You know what? There were disappointing elements to the race. I don’t deny it. But I also don’t believe that Toughest created that hype; we did. We knew what it could be, because we’d seen it in action over in Europe. We’d seen their athletes, travelled to the lab, watched their timeline fill with hopeful anticipation that Toughest London would be something special – we built up our expectations all on our own. Toughest were just there. Being themselves, presenting their obstacles and saying, ‘Can’t wait to see you’. The fact remains that despite them being a very well established race brand, temporary race builds are harder to manage than average – some of our UK brands do this magnificently (JD springs immediately to mind), but for this merging of a brave new concept in a traditional setting, things will undoubtedly come unstuck – thankfully not terminally though.
- Salomon Speedcross 3 (all I can wear right now because of my stupid sesamoid bones, but perfect support and grippy on rope).
- ByMoxy R:OCR sleeves and leggings (unslippable – best OCR stuff for spring/summer).
- Inov8 Merino baselayer (Spot on).
- Mudstacle wrags and tech vest (Obvs).
I can only speak of my personal race experience, but if you trust my judgement at all, you’ll sign up for Toughest. They aren’t here to conform, they’re here to make you feel something out of the ordinary. Toughest race was the culmination of a totally shitty phase of depression for me, and it’s helped me reassess and value my strengths, so I can truthfully say that it was a positive experience. It just goes to show that you really can Beat Your Obstacle, no matter what form it takes.
I had no intention of signing up for this race. Mainly because I’m not stupid: I know when they say 10k, they mean at least 15k, and I also know that camping in Scotland in March is something only lunatics do. Yet here we are. A cancellation of a race I was signed up to meant that I had to transfer to something, hence, yesterday, I saddled up the car and drove one hundred miles, and today, I drove one hundred more. To be that man who drove to Scotland, did a bit of a run/walk up some hills, and camped. In March.
The Deerstalker hadn’t really been on my radar because it seemed like a very difficult trail run rather than a jokey obstacle course race, however the promise of some excellent pals accompanying me made it almost irresistible. I think I was possibly swayed by the fact that fancy dress was encouraged, too.
The day began pleasantly enough. Mudstacle teammates and all-round excellent people Yvonne and Adam joined me at my parent’s house so that we could drive up together in my dad’s car that he had agreed to lend me before he realised that he was trading up for a brand new, ten day old, almost one of a kind, veritable spaceship. I was delighted to drive what was essentially a stormtrooper on wheels up to Scotland, because I knew with wheels the size of a small planet, any race car park would be a piece of cake. I was also confident that with the car being so unbelievably high-tech, that I could probably whistle to it form a mountain top, and it would come and pick me up if I felt too tired to continue. My dad, however stoical he seemed, was probably shitting it that only one of us would return unscathed, and that it would be me.
A couple of hours of me singing Taylor Swift and Jason Derulo, punctuated by an enormous, hearty pub meal saw us into the Scottish town of Innerleithen. We parked approximately twenty million miles away from the campsite, and hauled our (ample) kit and gear over to the registration and start area.
Registration itself was fine, apart from (and I get this a lot with Rat Race), the volunteers were on some sort of spectrum ranging from super duper amazingly helpful and can’t do enough for you, to literally could not give less of a shit. As a result of my registration volunteer falling at the lower end of that scale, I had to return to the desk three times to finally get everything for my registration pack, and that was tedious.
The first camping area had already filled up, but as luck would have it, the secondary site was in a beautiful walled garden, that would protect us from wind and lost drunk people. We set up camp, joined by Alex and Dudders, who are also excellent. Tents up, numbers affixed, tweed donned and shoes squidged on, we were ready to race. Except me, who was rapidly coming down with one of the worst bouts of indigestion I’ve ever had in my life. Why today? I have no idea, but I can tell you I’m becoming mightily sick of having some sort of ailment at every race I attend, and given that this one was digestive, there was probably something I should have done earlier in the week or on the day to prevent it.
Not having time to dwell on my rapidly expanding problem stomach, we lined up at the start and I had my usual whinge about how crap I am at running, and my compulsory apology for whingeing in the first place.
Head torches were mandatory, and the field lit up with hundreds of spotlights as we began our dusk rush into the surrounding, boggy fields. As a pack, we hit a good pace, but I was very much aware that everyone else was a considerably better runner than I, and I didn’t want to hold them all up. Valiantly, everyone stuck together for the first few KM, but we ended up separated on a steep ascent, so Yvonne stuck around for me and we completed the rest of the course together. And I basically chewed her ear off to distract from the fact that my stomach felt like it was housing several angry pygmies with pitchforks, jabbing at me intermittently.
The thing that struck both of us about this run, is that despite it being dark, the views are stunningly beautiful, and as the dark became pitch, the sight of thousands of headlamps trailing around the hilly route was honestly breath taking. The warmth of the night allowed us to stop and gaze at the stars, marvel at the pretty lights of the village below, and really take in the idea that we were part of something special. An impromptu disco on the hill, complete with dry ice, music, and flashing lights, compounded the surreal nature of the event.
Fully convinced that I would bail at the halfway point, I stormed the downhill sections, where, had I been competing, I would have made up plenty of lost ground from where I huffed and puffed up the ascents. Turns out it isn’t good enough to just be good at going downhill, and I might, just might, have to start hill training. Naturally I didn’t bail at the half way point, because I’m an idiot, and also I had dragged Yvonne back, and wasn’t about to be all, ‘SEE YOU IN THE BEER TENT,’ after she had been so patient with me.
After a (frankly needless) detour at ground level to increase the bastardly distance of the event, we waded some fast flowing rivers, which I actually welcomed, as my right foot was sore, and needed the occasional period of anaesthesia. The marshals delighted in telling us how cold and deep the water was, and honestly, after nuts, they all seemed fairly puddle-like in comparison. I loved it, and I marvelled that my hideous £1 brown knee-length socks stood up to the beating they were taking. I may purchase a pair in a less offensive colour and wear them all the time. Needless to say, the Sub-Sports winter leggings were absolutely spot on in keeping my legs warm, and my circulation going.
I had just about forgotten the pain of the first hill climb, so was ready to take the second in my stride, except for this one comprised a lot more crawling over scree, and was definitely not something I was going to complete in an upright position. I made the mistake of looking up and seeing just how far we had to climb, and felt that maybe I should have brought a Sherpa. Nevertheless, the trail was interesting and technical, something that really brings the track to life, and I love that there were so many different textures underneath our feet. The only decidedly rubbish section was the very top ascent on the last hill, which was well worn-tussocks of grass, littered with the moaning and groaning figures of racers having a rest after taking on the first section. The climb was exhausting, my calves were burning, but I was not about to join their ranks and have a sit down, as I knew the wind would pick up on this section, and they were all exposed to it.
Yvonne and I bounced down the springy, spongey mud paths that formed an undulating descent, and we listened for the soft ‘thunk’ of people falling behind us, as sliding people were taking the feet out of the people below them by accident. In retrospect, this was absolutely brilliant fun. You had to trust your feet and roll with the terrain, because leaning back would have proved dangerous. I had an impromptu seat on a little rocky outcrop after losing my balance when someone fell behind me, but I only got a little bruise.
Then it was just a gentle sojourn through the local village to take us back to the event grounds. There were people in the streets shouting, clapping, and bizarrely, playing the drums, and I noticed a house party spilling into the path.
‘I wonder,’ I pondered aloud, ‘If they have Gaviscon.’
Fully overcome by agony and desperation, I decided to crash the party. ‘Excuse me, I know this is incredibly weird, but my stomach is in shreds, and I was just wondering if anyone had any Gaviscon?’ Highly amused, the house-owner invited me in, regaling me with tales of his own adventures in indigestion, but I thought it best to wait on his front step as he rummaged for something to put out the FIRE in my stomach. He only went and bloody found me some Rennie. What a saint. I ate half a pack out of his hand like a hungry dog, and thanking him profusely for saving my life, I could get back onto the road without worrying that I might just explode from the pain. I wish I could remember the house number, because he’d definitely have a thank you card in the post if I did. Thank you SO much, nameless sufferer of indigestion and kindest man in Scotland.
Relief descended on me within about 5 minutes, and I felt capable of doing a little jog. Yvonne’s back was jarred, so we weren’t exactly sprinting, but we weren’t hanging out of our backsides either. The hum of the event village came into earshot, and the last km or so passed without event. Then we remembered we’d have to do that bloody slip and slide. God.
Turning back into the event village was a good feeling – we’d put on a decent pace to look fit and awesome for the waiting crowd, but had misjudged the distance from the entrance to the finish, so I was pooped by the time I reached the top of the slide. No matter, the finish was within spitting distance, so we both chucked ourselves down the slide and ambled across the line into the loving embrace of Adam, our cool medals, and the obligatory Rat Race Curly Wurly.
We did it. We did it in tweed.
The ‘event’ was obviously ongoing, and with a quick change and an emergency cup of tea, we were into the Beerstalker tent to partake in some dad-dancing in wellies, and to redeem our free beers. I was obviously in no state to eat or drink anything apart from tea, so I donated my free beer to a good cause, but still had a great time.
Rat Race really know how to put on a smooth show, and the drink/food prices were certainly not as bad as they could be knowing that we were a captive audience.
Suddenly it was bedtime, and we retired to our secret garden hideaway to wonder how long it would be before someone cracked and had to get out of the tent for a tragic, middle-of-the-night wee. Yvonne was the only one of us that lasted the whole night without having to do the soul-destroying trip from snug-in-a-bug sleeping back to bastard cold portaloo. I have no idea what it is about camping that makes you need to wee at 3am, but it crushes my spirit every time.
After a rude wakeup call from a special kind of pillock on the campsite, we awoke looking good and feeling better. (One of these statements is a lie). Packing up was done with military precision, and after sweet-talking some Rat Race officials; we managed to get our baggage transported from the village to the car park, for which we will remain eternally grateful, because a five-minute walk seems a very long way after you’ve climbed two mountains overnight.
And so it was, to the pub for lunch, and back over the border. Even though I was ill throughout the event, I will remember the weekend so fondly, because it was out of the ordinary, and I had great people around me. Every weekend should be an adventure, and every adventure is that much sweeter with brilliant pals.
Do this race, even if it’s just once. It’s nice to get out of your comfort zone, and it may help you get out of your head, even just for a weekend. After all, the point of all of this is to get out of the Rat Race.
From the local press to your Facebook news feed, you’d have had to still have your head buried in a pile of woodchip in the nutcracker loop to have not noticed that a LOT of people did not finish at NUTS last weekend.
I was so nervous about the event that I cut a section out of the neck of my neoprene because I felt like I was choking every time I thought about the race. Only now, whilst on a train, can I order my thoughts about the race. I have spent the whole week feeling as though I’ve been wearing a phantom wetsuit: the invisible neoprene tight against my throat.
Now I’ve written about NUTS enough times for you to understand the nature of the course; it’s tough, rustic, relentless, largely wood based and doesn’t really open up for a good run. This suits me fine, as I can’t stand running for long periods, and I’m actually fairly terrible at it. The near constant occurrence of obstacles suits me; so this is why I chose to use the course as an attempt to qualify for this year’s OCR World Championships in Canada.
Three laps of winter NUTS was the challenge I set myself. After three in summer, I knew that I have the legs to do four, but with winter being such a different animal, I decided to use the distance as a stepping stone into the four I’ll do at a later date. Looking at the weather forecasts and listening to the OCRA drama unfold, I’m really pleased that I stuck with the three laps.
It was cold. It wasn’t the coldest, but it was cold, windy, rainy, snowy and generally unforgiving. When my mum and I arrived (happy Mother’s Day, Mum, come watch me narrowly avoid hypothermia and cry a bit), I could tell that she was more nervous than me. This was compounded by my friend Aaron turning up in the Mudstacle tent looking like an anaemic yeti, shaking from head to toe having returned from his first lap. His lips were chapped and cut, and he repeated, ‘I don’t know what’s happening’ about four times, as several of us dived on him, taking off his clothes and swapping them for dry things and DryRobes to help him recover. Aaron was not the poster child for reassuring my mother that I was not going to die.
Leaving my terrified mum and predictably nonchalant dog with my kit in the team tent, I didn’t really feel terribly focussed on the task at hand (just get through it, finish in the top ten, go home).
As is usual, my nervousness turned to nausea within about 2km. The first lap felt like an embarrassingly slow slug. I naively thought I was making good time when I had reached the 4k mark, for some reason forgetting that the final few km of the race comprise of repeated insults to your physical state, but, let’s face it, I was not making good time at all. Really happy to have completed some obstacles that I previously struggled with under race conditions, I still felt strong, and had plenty of energy left to go for my second lap. I nipped into transition for a cup of tea (because I actively fantasise about tea in every race), a bite of banana, and to reassure mum that I was not dead yet. My second lap, which really ought to have been stronger now that I knew what was ahead, was pretty much where I lost my mind. But Ami, didn’t you go mad at NUTS on your third lap, last year? Yes, yes I did.
Whenever I am on the NUTS course, I find myself questioning whether I’m actually having a good time. Most sections begin with my internal monologue saying, ‘I hate this section’, and yet, as soon as the races are finished, I’m the first person to say, ‘Oh the course is GREAT, you’ll LOVE it, there’s something for everyone.’
I cannot explain the feeling of despair that descends upon me when I’m plodding through the muddy hills of Dorking, but I can assure you that I end up in a pretty dark place. That said, the course really is excellent; it challenges everyone from the expert to the newcomer, and it often makes my race much more fun when I have to navigate through the various hen parties, work ‘team building’ outings and woefully underprepared, plimsoll wearing masses in the middle lap. I also love that you’ll sometimes have a chance to see the best of the best whip past you whilst you’re slugging away on your first or second lap; it’s great at bringing everyone together, regardless of their different reasons for being there. In short, my second lap should have been more fun than it was, but I developed a headache by the time I hit the nutcracker loop, and I really thought that my race was over. Pain seared through my skull in a Harry Potter-esque fashion every time I lowered my head, bent down, or leaned on anything. I ignored it. Just when it had gotten to the point where every footstep jarred my brain, I hit a water station and drank basically all of it. In my delirium, I called the water marshal an ‘Angel Man’, and proceeded to do the most laborious and ungraceful jaunt across the new ‘Full Monty’ obstacle. (That really is a cheeky little bastard of an obstacle, you know. It is ruinous for almost every part of your body, and becomes just as much of a mental feat as a physical one by the end).
Coming out of the wooded section, I had almost decided to pull out of the race. My pace was slowing, and I could not get my head around the idea of putting myself through the whole thing again. I cursed myself for not training enough, for not eating properly this week, and for basically everything I could think of. I knew of the 75% DNF rate from 2 laps on the day before. I also knew that a Sunday race is a whole different one to that on the previous day, as the course is churned up beyond recognition. I was getting tired, stupid and emotional, and my head was about to explode. I felt destroyed as I watched other runners start to skirt the water sections because they were so brain-crushingly cold, but still I flopped through each ditch like a lost salmon. Hamburger Hill loomed, and whilst it seemed so close to home, I knew that just that section was a huge challenge in itself. I hugged my tyre like it was a life vest as I humourlessly trudged up and down that horrible, horrible hill, pausing only to have a little tantrum when I got completely stuck in the cargo net. Face down; fully stretched out on the ground, like a toddler in a supermarket, I flailed underneath the sopping wet ropes that pinned me to the mud. I had had enough of this.The marshals, each as lovely and encouraging as the last, assured me that there wasn’t long to go, but there was: there was a whole other lap, and I couldn’t see the sense in putting myself through it. I smiled my fakest, most pained smile, and sat contemplating my life at the top of the slide, just as I herd a disembodied voice shout my name. It was Pete: fearless leader and all round good chap. He was awaiting the arrival of Andy Parry at the slide, and he had sweet tea in his hand.
I shot down the slide. The tea was mine.
As soon as the tea hit my throat, I was beyond elated. I was going to get through this lap. I was going to beg, steal, borrow or murder someone to get my hands on some painkillers, and I was going to get changed and revaluate my stance on being a big baby.
Maybe not the latter. I started to cry as I hit the transition area. Lovely, friendly people, and also a small clutch of amazing runners who had, for various reasons, pulled out of the race themselves surrounded me. “You don’t have to do this.” They said. I cried and snotted whilst my mum pulled off my gloves, and several people snuggled me whilst I tried to extricate myself from my soaking baselayers. “I don’t want to, but I do.” The DNF rate was so high, I knew there would be no shame in dropping out (well, there’s no shame anyway), but I was worried about my qualification status for OCRWC, so for that reason alone, I donned yet more neoprene, told my mum that I really didn’t want to do it, supped some tea, got some ibuprofen from an absolute HERO, told everyone I didn’t want to do it, then started my last lap.
I felt physically sick to the point at which I started to look for suitable bushes behind which to vom. Then came Andy Parry.
Andy was being filmed by Mudstacle TV throughout his 4 lap challenge. This was to be his final lap, and he was looking very strong considering. But, being the stand up sort of guy that he is, he told me that he was sticking with me. ‘I feel so sick,’ I mumbled, ‘That’s not good’, he affirmed.
No, it wasn’t. I worried about holding Andy up, but felt reassured that he didn’t want to slog out his last lap alone, so I trundled along as best I could. I think we cheered each other a bit – the course can be pretty miserable when you’re alone, and with the wind picking up, it looked pretty desolate out there. A lot of people in my three lap race had jumped the gun by 90 minutes, which I think was desperately unfair, as it cheated the 2pm cutoff point, but whatever – it did mean that the course was practically deserted and devoid of atmosphere in the afternoon. Nevertheless, it was brilliant to have Andy by my side, and when the ibuprofen kicked in, I literally felt my headache melt away. I was back in the game.
Our last lap can only really be described as a ‘bimble.’ I didn’t allow myself the fantasy of having qualified, simply because I knew my times were atrocious, and no reassurance could convince me otherwise. It was very cold, and Andy was starting to freeze up towards the end; but he stuck by me when he was strong and I was sick and miserable, so there was no way that I was going to leave him. I honestly thought that the final water section would do him in. The wind made for an unforgiving environment when you left the water, and the lake was so earth shatteringly freezing that my brain hurts to think of it. I get involuntary shudders when I think about how a simple obstacle like the floating donuts is transformed into a means of torture when the water is cold and the wind is picking up around you. Alas, we both made it through, and leaving Andy to his heroic last hundred metres, I crossed the finish line pretty happily considering my previous crisis of confidence. I was so touched and happy to see that a whole bunch of people (who could have gone home already) were still there to cheer for those of us still on the course. Hearing your name from the sidelines when you’re feeling low really makes all the difference, and I can’t thank the likes of Ginger and Becky enough for screeching at me.
I didn’t look for my time or result until long afterwards, when Ginger brought it up on her phone. I honestly had felt a little dejected about the whole thing, but it just goes to show that you shouldn’t make assumptions, because you never really know what’s going on until the whole race has played out.
Because, GUESS WHO’S GOING TO CANADA?
And GUESS WHO’S SIGNING UP TO NUTS AGAIN?
Well, one might say I’ve always struggled with the UK Champs, despite it only having existed for a year. I almost bottled it in November, and I intermittently sobbed my way around the course, aiming for completion rather than any semblance of competition. That was more of a reflection of my state of mind at the time, rather than the race itself, because Nuclear is fantastic. The course was very well thought out, and the obstacles were largely achievable with appropriate training.
Somehow, despite the absolutely fantastically innovative and deserving Judgement Day team taking over the build for 2016, in one of my favourite venues no less, the idea of going to the UK Champs this year is about as appealing as sticking my foot in a blender. And there’s a reason for that – our own governing body. Continue reading
Mark Twain gets it. He said, “A classic is something everybody wants to have read, and nobody wants to read.”
I can apply this very apt quote to many things in my life, for example, I want to *have seen* certain classic horror movies, but I don’t want to watch them. This quote applies itself beautifully to another classic: Tough Guy, The Original. It is a race we want to *have done*, but the actual process of completing it? Not so much. Continue reading
It’s midnight, and I’ve just taken some Night Nurse. This could be nonsense or it could be utterly profound, but most likely it will sit somewhere in the middle.
I’ve been fighting off the beginnings of some kind of Evil Virus (possibly just a cold) this week, and it’s come at a time where I really didn’t need it. Alas, it is here and I have to just cope with it because neither hell nor high water (and there’ll be a lot of that) will stop me from running Tough Guy the Original tomorrow. Continue reading