I’ve been to see Phil The Physio 7 times already this year.
This is unprecedented in almost 45 years of racing and training.
My diary entries since Feb are a cycle of boom-bust with training modes and volumes dropping in and out according to which bits of me (that week) had decided not to work.
Given this all coincided with The Most Challenging Time Podcast – Andy Mouncey I knew it was imperative to retain some form of regular physical activity in my day if I was to have any hope of managing my mood and retaining some semblance of perspective. And if all I managed was to sit in my barrel of cold water down the bottom of the garden and let the physics work their mental re-set magic I’d count that as a win too.
Finally, as the month of May came around my brain decided it had given me enough of a reminder of the power (and persistence) of the mind-body connection, and for no real physiological reason that Phil or I could fathom the bits of me that weren’t working properly started working properly. Which last weekend put me on the start line of my first fellrace for bloomin’ ages as I know the only way to really know where you’re at with the competitive thing you really like to do is to go do the thing.
So here I was on the western side of Coniston in The Lake District with my head at a 45 degree up-angle as that was the only way I could take in the race route: Half a mile and 900’ of hike-scramble-stagger up a loose rock-strewn bracken-infested gully and down 900’ of a different loose rock-strewn bracken-infested gully – and a flat 50 yard dash to finish.
Lots of running then.
‘Not for the faint hearted’ said the race blurb RacePage – BOFRA – and given this a sport not known for its’ hyperbole I figured you could take that as read. Just to check I’d walked up the first two thirds of the descent watching the junior racers on the way down: Never mind the interesting body shapes that the combination of gravity-speed-steep-rough ground was producing…you just had to look at the faces.
Not for the faint-hearted.
The British Open Fell Runners Association is a specialist off-shoot of the Fell Runners Association itself somewhat less than mainstream catering as it does for (mainly Northern) folks who like to charge up and down mountains for fun. When I started to take my running seriously in my mid-teens charging up and down mountains for fun was on the agenda from the off ‘cos that was just what you did up here – as well as the usual diet of road and cross country races.
Whatever else I’ve been drawn to over the years there’s always been fellrunning and there’s still races I’ve never done. Many of these are the BOFRA events – always short, steep and gnarly and often as part of a traditional country show – so a couple of years back I decided to give myself a few seasons acting as if I actually had some fast-twitch muscle fibres and could descend like a falling stone. One of the joys of these races is that you can still just rock up on the day pay a few quid and line up against the very best in the sport. So – for better or worse – there is no hiding and you always know where you’re at and once again I’m about to find out.
Someone shouts ‘GO!’ and 61 of us charge up the stony track hurdling nettles and bouncing off elbows till almost immediately we all slow down to take the hard right and 45 degrees mercilessly up onto the fell proper. The momentary pause in proceedings gives me space to remember that I’ve neglected on the detail of my operational framework consistent with my neurology – that’s Process & Outcome Goals to you, dear reader – and am instead guided by the singularly unhelpful ‘Don’t Be Sh**’ and from Mrs Mouncey the slightly more helpful ‘Come Home In One Piece Please’.
Very quickly we’re on to steeper looser ground that requires handholds as well as footholds which leaves me nothing to hold my chest intact. This is important as my lungs feel as though they are ready for an ‘Alien’ re-enactment and I’m fairly sure we’re not even 3mins in yet. My vision narrows to the heels in front of my nose – trying to keep ‘em there without said heels smashing me in said nose. Someone scrambles past and treads all over my hands. Someone else goes for the same line as me for a few paces before a slip puts paid to that silliness. The heels in front of my face disappear which means I’m slowing down. I know I am ‘cos my breathing sound effects have gone up a few octaves and what rhythm I had is shot to sh**.
Coming out of the crouched position to be more upright in order to breathe properly has its own level of jeopardy on a slope this steep (and loose): You risk toppling over backwards to cross the finish line somewhat early as a human cartwheel. So hunched into the slope it remains and up we all grunt.
Across the crags at the top of the gully the slope eases but I have jelly-legs which means anything other than a meaningful shuffle is a drooling dream. One – or was it two? – more people have gone past on the climb which the ‘Just Come Home Intact’ version takes as a win while ‘Don’t Be Sh**’ quietly rages. Turn at the flag and the marshal then drop off the edge of the world.
Seriously.
In fairness this came up in various bits of chat pre-start with the helpful addition from the marshal halfway up the descent of a ‘large rock step’ just off the top. But ‘Don’t worry as you can just bounce down it.’
?!?
I manage a desperate slither-stop as the lip comes into view above the brink – think ‘F**k that!’ and go for a bum-slide round the side. Don’t Be Sh** nearly chokes on the humiliation while Come Home Intact chalks up another win.
The coming down bit is usually a strength of mine and worth a handful of places.
Not today.
I’m as rusty as hell anyway which makes today even more of a desperate dance of survival on terrain that is amore akin to Via Ferrata in places. Remarkably I wobbly past two people then right at the last steep bit before the turn to the finish two other bodies flash past having chosen a better line. 50 desperate yards on jelly legs as Don’t Be Sh** goes mental and they remain a few tantalizing thrashing paces ahead as we throw ourselves down the path towards the finish line while the bemused-shocked Sunday afternoon tourists take evasive action.
The winner’s taken a ridiculous 15mins to my 22. I was seriously blowing out my arse on the up and I’m way down the Old Bloke category and the field in general than I would normally expect.
And I did it and finished with all my bits attached if somewhat shaken.
Lower the bar, widen the goalposts and Don’t Be Sh** gets a re-frame.
Sometimes that can be OK too.
