Jurassic Fantastic
19/04/2010
Jurassic Fantastic / On the edge
It is often said that long distance running is a mental challenge as much as a physical one. Well as far as challenges go, it doesn’t get much more mental than this. Not one, not two, but three…yes three…marathons on three consecutive days along the punishing Dorset coastal path. It seems unlikely there’d be many people willing or able to give this a go, but a packed minibuses trundling to the start line near Lyme Regis on the first day suggested otherwise. With a field of runners which numbered in hundreds, this relatively young event (this was it’s 5th year) is gaining in popularity. Perhaps it’s the inclusive approach – you can enter as a walker, a jogger or a runner or a mixture of both – you can do one, or two or all three of the marathons. You can even do them all in one go (the extremely nutty ‘oner’ which takes in the whole 78 miles or so not only in one go, but through the darkness of the night…near a cliff edge..). The point is, I should never have been there. But I’d been talked into it by a very good friend – asked to keep him company on the daunting journey. I’d said yes, well ok then. He said he couldn’t come 2 days before the race (albeit for fairly, I suppose, respectable reasons), so here I was. Going solo. Going slowly green.
The good news was that this event has none of the off-putting stress and pressure that a road race often seems to generate – most people are trying to prove something to themselves and not to each other.
On the first day we found ourselves slipping and sliding occasionally calf-depth mud along the churned-up, damp and windy route which took us the 26.2 miles back to HQ – Chessil Beach holiday park. I can say, without exception it was the toughest marathon I think I have ever completed (at least on a par the Manx mountain challenge I had done a couple of years previously), so you can imagine how I felt, be-mudded, bewildered and be-draggled at the prospect of getting up and doing the whole thing again the next day. I heard many people mumbling much the same thing. But something – perhaps a few missing brain cells – drives us long distance runners onwards and often, quite steeply on this occasion, upwards. So on the start line I found myself once again the next morning at 11am. Amidst a slightly depleted bunch (some had downgraded themselves to the jogger group to ensure completing the distance within the time limits set), I set off along the mercifully flat stretch which led to Portland Bill, which we were to circumnavigate, clutching my map in one hand and a squeezy gel in the other. After only 10 minutes we found ourselves climbing (there are some parts of the route so steep it is impossible to do anything more than slowly haul yourself up at a walking pace, one step at a time) and I started to wonder if I’d actually make it through the second day, let alone the third. But the sun was shining and it’s amazing how much a something like that can change the way you see the world. For the next 24 miles I marvelled at the view, I felt the breeze on my face, I chatted with other runners, I got lost and then I got found again and felt proud of myself. Through the bustling centre of Weymouth (where I even spotted donkey rides still taking place!), along the rugged coastline, over the styles, up the steps and down the hills, through all of it I actually enjoyed myself. Quite a lot. Day 2 finished down the wide and staggered steps leading to the beautiful Lulworth cove. It’s one of my favourite places, so it felt like coming home. Day 2, against all probability and reason, in 5 and a half hours, was done.
By now dropping out was well and truly out of the question. So I put the fact that I could barely make it up the stairs to bed that night to the back of my mind and cherished the thought that every mile I covered was a mile marked off the ever dwindling total to the finish. Another sunny morning saw just 30 or so of us in the carpark in Lulworth being counted down to the final start..’5!….4!….3!’, shouted the marshall. A small crowd of on-lookers had gathered, anticipating the rousing call to begin. ‘2!...1!...GO!’, but instead of the gazelle-like rampage which the spectators were no doubt expecting, we all hobbled off in what looked like a comedy regional gathering of the ministry of silly walks. It took a good 2 miles to loosen up those quad muscles I can tell you. And just to add insult to injury (luckily I was remarkably injury free mind you), the climbing started and didn’t stop for the first half of the marathon. Some of the meanest, most unforgiving hills loomed above us. Weary and disbelieving at the turn of every corner, we pushed on. A sea mist descended and we found ourselves running in a cloud. At times it was very surreal. By the time I reached Old Harry Rocks, only a handful of miles from the finish, I couldn’t see a runner - or anything – anywhere. Shadowy shapes would appear and disappear in the distance as the moisture clung to my eyelashes. I have supposed since, that perhaps it was a blessing in foggy disguise, since I couldn’t see how far I had left to go and it is more than true that sometimes ignorance is bliss. I carried with me, however, a slight anxiety that with this ignorance would come an accidental topple off the cliff edge. Thankfully I did make it to the final checkpoint on Pevrell point in Swanage. I’ve spent many a sunny day in the lovely Swanage, so this was a happy moment. We were on the home straight.
2 cheese-and-pickle baps later (my fuel of choice) and I was off again, willing the last, long, sandy stretch of Studland beach into my day. And bloody long and sandy it is. In fact long is an understatement. It is longier than a long thing, not to mention running in sand is no beach picnic, but it was a lovely way to end the race. It felt sort of quite heroic – at least I had chariots of fire playing in my frontal lobe anyway. And as the rain set it, (proper driving going-to-get-you-so-wet-you’ll-wish-you’d-stayed-in rain), I caught a glimpse of the finish line and heard the cheering – sweet music to my ears.
And, well, that was that. Trophy in hand, cheesy grin on face, the pain and resolve to see a phsychiatrist was already fading. As I crawled back to the car, someone handed me a leaflet for the Atlantic Coast challenge – a similar trek of the same length from the Lizard to Lands end in October. And this is my cry for help…suddenly it looks very appealing.
