I hated you, I loved you too
Racing. That thing we do where we get up at some unholy hour of the morning, shove food we don’t want to eat down our throats, push ourselves right to our pain limits then, the moment the medal goes over our heads, declare it the best thing we’ve ever done and start searching for the next hit. On paper, even I don’t think that sounds like particularly normal behaviour and yet, here we are. Back in the saddle, baby, and boy does it feel good.
After a year on the bench with a stress fracture, my tentative comeback was one of the local Les Gets trail races – the medium sized 21kms. Not too bad, distance wise, but with 950m of the 1100m of climbing happening in the first 10kms, it was never going to be a gentle re-entry.
Woefully undertrained doesn’t even begin to cover it – recovery from a stress fracture has to be very slow and very steady – which doesn’t suit hot headed, impatient me AT ALL. But as I still want to be running when I’m 87, my pension has run out and I’m relying on my athletic prowess for survival, I’ve been impressively well behaved and mainly stuck to the brief. But it meant I went into this having climbed 3 hills and done one long run over race distance. Bullshitting your way through, anybody?
Whilst I occasionally enjoy the circus of behemoth races like UTMB or a big city marathon, I love small local races like these. A few hundred runners in each, no unnecessary fannying about, turn up 15 minutes before the start and off you go. And off we went – straight up a hill. Because who needs a warmup anyway?
It’s a good job it was easy on the eye, because there really was an awful lot of up going on. The first long haul was up Mont Caly – innocuous looking thing when you’re standing on the terrace of my apartment, but not so much when you’re hauling your reluctant arse up what felt like a perpendicular climb with added mud and somebody’s out of control dog. I did manage a tactical pee behind a shrub though – the importance of this cannot be overstated when you realise too late that you’ve missed your opportunity. Trail runners are, by nature, a disgustingly feral bunch and we’ll pee anywhere, at the drop of a hat. Don’t hang out with us if you’re squeamish.
Caly conquered, I took one look at the aid station and realised that the only way through this was going to be through the medium of full fat coke. This is a weapon normally reserved for mile 40, when I’ve been on my feet for more than 12 hours and my stomach is threatening ejection of anything solid – but this was not a day for dicking around and I was going to need every last drop of assistance available. I took a wistful look at the lovely restaurant where we often go for lunch, having gently hiked our way across like normal people, then prepared to fire myself down the first big descent.
I’ll never forget that run down. A few kms of technical but very runnable downhill where I could zone out and just let rip for a while. I was in the shade, in the most beautiful place in the world, doing one of the things I love the most. I didn’t cry because obvs I am hardcore, but I did consider it.
Aid station 2, another timing mat for the stalkers, and then it was the big climb. This is my 4th summer out here, it’s my summer training playground. I’ve lost count of the number of races I’ve done over the past 13 years. I’ve brought up a child, as somebody helpfully reminded me when I was having a Moment. I’ve survived numerous Family Gatherings With Cousins. I’ve been married twice (so far). And I can confidently state that NOTHING has ever been as hard as that climb.
I’m not entering into discussion about this. It was steep, relentless and there were times when a marshall was there to help us over a ravine, lest we slipped to our deaths. It was everything I’d dreamed of, and then some. I wished I’d brought my poles, mind.
The top of Mont Chéry was full of knackered runners in various states of Gastrointestinal distress. But at least we got to run slightly downhill across to Caly, in order to live the dream of climbing it again. I almost lost the plot over an unexpectedly sharp 200 metre climb, but as wars have been started over less I don’t care.
I can’t remember much about the rest, to be honest. It was the usual pain cave of the late stages of a race. I was hot, tired, dusty, sticky and feeling a bit sick. Kendal mint cake was hitting the spot but my stomach is used to cleaner eating these days – refined sugar brings out its inner toddler. I saw Nick again and could barely even speak, but after that it was all downhill, bar the occasional comedy short climb.
Steep, technical downhill where at least the need to watch every step means you can’t think about how much it hurts. Past a girl who was out cold by the side of the road (and thankful this time that it wasn’t me who needed to stop and help), past the marshal who cheerily told me it was 2kms to the end – I gave him my very best “If it’s 1 mm over that I will come back here and make you wish you had never been born” look – and then I could hear the village. Hear the finish line. One last push and I was down onto the flat. I was too tired to do anything other than walk a bit until I saw the finish line, then the inevitable ability to sprint came upon me. As always, Nick and his camera were waiting for me just over the finish line to record the utter relief that I’d done it at all, never mind 16 minutes under my target time.
I’ve had a lot of support over this past year. Running is how I manage my mental health, so the impact of being badly injured has been challenging, no matter how hard I tried to find alternatives. There have been plenty of times when I’ve wondered if I would ever race again – and I wasn’t sure what the outcome of this one would be. So to all of you who have listened to me moan, supported, soothed, and mainly not told me to shut up over the past year, thank you.
To those who stalked me, sent messages, sent me songs and took the piss during the race, I thank you too. And to the person who came up with the most innovative way of measuring the ongoing state of my injury – this one was for you.
