The Recce Weekend- the Artic one

As is now tradition, a group of us (this year, Alan, Tara, and myself) go out for a weekend in March to recce the LDWA 100 route. Although this year none of us are actually running the event itself ( The Cinque Ports 100 ) the recce is as much of a fixture for us as the proper event, and so last weekend, along with an extra participant - the Beast from the East (more on him later) - we set out.…

Well, it's not much later, but there's an opportunity here to complain about the weather, so I'm immediately going to take this up, and begin with a good long section about the Beast from the East (hereby known as the BFTE). There had been at least a week of mild weather in London leading up to the weekend. I'd vaguely noticed on the news some references that the BFTE was briefly going to return over the weekend, but the weather felt so mild that I didn't really believe it. As the weekend got closer and more people started talking about the return of the 'cold snap' I started to become more observant to the weather forecast, gradually checking it ever more frequently, working up to obsessively, spending Friday alternately glued to BBC Weather and the Met Office, switching allegiance depending upon which looked less bad. They both looked pretty terrible. But it was still so mild, I could hardly believe the BFTE would be back by the morning. It all seemed like a great deal of fuss about nothing.

I got up at 06:00 on Saturday, and peeked around the corner of the curtain. There it was! The Beast! In all it's blizzardy greatness! I spent a lot of time spent faffing around, looking at the snow, at the weather forecast, and changing outfit a few times. Too many clothes? Not enough? Waterproof, or extra warmth? I eventually decided on wearing pretty much all of my running kit at once, to cover all options, and by this time was late setting off, so ended up running the 3 miles to St Pancras so as not to miss the train.

On the train, with a nice hot cup of coffee, sat quite still (my movement hampered somewhat by the several jackets I was wearing), and looking out the window at the pretty snowy fields, it didn’t seem so bad. How pretty the snow looks! At Ashford, I met up with Alan and Tara, and the recce team was complete. At Appledore, we hopped off the train, and started wistfully at it as it headed off into the distance, abandoning us in midst of the BFTE and the middle of nowhere. That was that - nothing for it now, the recce had begun! The plan was 33 miles today (sections 6 - 10 of the route), and 38 miles tomorrow (section 11 to the end).

We ran the first mile into Appledore village and picked up the route, which went right past a perfect little tea shop, with a waft of perfect homemade cake, and perfectly happy people sat behind the perfect chequered curtains in the warm. There was the murmur of some dissension in the ranks, with certain members of the group (definitely not me) suggesting that perhaps a tea shop (and this tea shop in particular) may be more genteel way to spend the morning, rather than battling the snow which at almost the same moment we stepped off the train, had started to blow horizontally. Route Master Alan was having none of this nonsense, and off we ploughed (keep tuned for more on ploughing), head first into the blizzard….

...and the longest section of the route. My parents are doing the actual event, and so I have promised to give them a true and accurate feedback of the route, and so to make things logical I shall refer to the sections as they appear on the actual route description for the event. This was Section 6 – 10 miles from Appledore to Lydd. It was pretty monotonous – the snow coming sideways, over what seemed like field after field, after field, after field..... I genuinely had no idea there were so many fields that looked the same down here. The route description kept mentioning 'sewers’ which I initially found quite alarming, but soon happily realised this is just a quaint Kent word to describe ditches. The 10 miles passed with field, blizzard, sewer, foot bridge over sewer into next field, a few minutes of complaining about four previous points, and then repeat over and over, for a couple of hours, with a few sheep thrown in for good measure. I'm sure sheep are becoming more assertive. I remember they used to run off as they saw you coming, now they march right over at look at you with an accusing stare:

Towards the end of the section, we came across a cow trough in a field which the route description confidently stated had a tap with mains water. Hurrah! I had noticed on the train that my water bottle had leaked. Inside my bag. Fabulous. So as well as damp things, I had also been running low on water, and as always when low on water, had been feeling thirsty, and here was a solution! We turned on the tap and some thick brown liquid came out. Cow poo water. Abruptly, my thirst subsided.

I promised to talk some more about ploughing, and soon we came upon a different variation of field, a ploughed field!

Threats were made to repeats last years ‘A-Z of route description words’ but this time for fields, but we were soon saved by arriving in Lydd, the end of the first section.

An impromtu checkpoint was created, sheltered behind a hedge in a cemetery, where we tried quickly to eat some high energy snacks, which was a challenge, as they were partly frozen.

Partly re-fuelled, but now chilled from stopping, we continued on through section 7, which was a quick 5km from Lydd to New Romney, and things continued in much the same vein, but with an airport and golf course thrown in for good measure. New Romney was a delightful little town, and excitingly had some public toilets, which were exciting because 1) I needed a wee from the cold, and 2) they had a hand dryer, which blew out air which although not hot, was not as cold as the actual air.

So on to section 8, which I shall never forget as long as I live. A quick scan of the route description, and 4.5 miles from New Romney to Dymchurch seemed like it would be a breeze (an unfortunate choice of word, as it turns out). The first couple of miles were inland, mostly road running, until we arrived at the sea. The sea! The 100 route has been designed around the Cinque Ports (a historic series of coastal towns in Kent and Sussex, formed for military and trade purposes) and so I figured a lot of it would be along the coast. I love coast running, so was looking forward to this, and finally, after miles and miles of fields, we were at the sea! It wasn’t quite as I imagined. We ran up to join the promenade at the exact point that a giant dog poo bin was situated, and turned left. And then did not move any further. The BFTE was blowing a howling gale from the eastwards direction, which I suppose is logical, given it’s name. The only trouble being, the next point of the route description instructed to “continue 2.6 miles on concrete promenade to Dymchurch” in a due east direction. The sea was crashing around, the BFTE was doing its utmost to blow us backwards, the sand was covered in snow.... 

                           

...I reached my low point of the weekend, and stayed there for 2.6 miles.

After what felt like an age, we arrived in Dymchurch, where we dived into the local Tesco to procure some sustenance. A picnic followed, sheltered beneath the porch of a rather sorry looking beach shop with a couple of forlorn looking buckets and spades swaying about in the winds. Following the picnic, another toilet/ shelter inside under hand dryer stop was scheduled, before we all manned up and faced the fact we had to go back into the storm, for section 9 - 8.9 miles from Dymchurch to Hythe.

But lo! After a short section crossing the Romney Hythe and Dymchurch steam railway (with a train right on cue), the route description began harking back to talking about fields and footbridges. After stating just a few short hours ago that I never wished to run over a field again, I had never been so glad to get away from the coast and see a field in all its flat and boring glory. The fields carried on for a few miles, then two exciting things happened at once. One: a vertical bog. Two: hyenas. Yes, you read that right. Hyenas in Kent! Happily, they were behind some fairly sturdy looking fences, securely enclosed within the bounds of Port Lympne Wildlife Park. Although on a closer look, the fences didn’t look that sturdy. At over 50 miles in to the proper event, I could imagine the hyenas gradually becoming aware of the increased foot traffic passing their enclosure. Tired feet slowly slipping and sliding up the vertical bog just a few inches away from the hyenas noses… well, if ever there was an incentive to get up a hill quickly, a hungry hyena eying you up has got to be it.

Elated for making it to the top 1) without sliding back down the bog to the bottom, and 2) escaping he hyenas hungry, slobbery, and downright unpleasant stares, we were rewarded by the first real view for the day, and spent a few minutes taking it all in. It was really quite pretty up here. Beautiful in fact in the snow. A camera moment was declared:

 

From there on in the route became more interesting. We passed a castle (Lympne Castle), woods covered in a sprinkling of snow...

and then into Hythe, a charming town, where we upgraded our checkpoint facilities to a bench underneath the upper story of the Town Hall. 

Restored, we set out on out final leg for the day, 5.9 miles from Hythe to Folkstone. We were even on schedule, a statement not usually uttered on a recce weekend, and on track for a finish before sunset. This section included a (very) short bit along the Royal Military Canal...

...a hill, a house called Pickle Lodge (should have brought some cheese), woods....

...more hills, Martello Towers, and alarmingly, no less than three danger alerts “Care – flying gold balls”, “ MoD Danger” (yikes), and “Dangerous site, keep out”. We hurried through so as to avoid potential disasters, we soon arrived at Sandgate, where we returned to the seafront where the wind was still howling a gale and seemed just as determined as it had earlier to blow us backwards right back to where we started. But bouyed by the thought of a hot shower, lashings of hot tea, and a large and fulfilling meal being now just a few short miles away, the wind was no match for us, and we powered along the promenade. We passed another castle, and then wound our way through a delightful park on the cliffs, zig-zagging upwards to the top, and our stop for the night – Folkstone - just in time for nightfall!

We headed to the excellent Wycliffe Guest House, where we met up with Sarah and David who were joining us on tomorrow’s run, had very hot showers to defrost, plenty of hot tea and then headed out to equally excellent Chambers pub for food. The luxury item competition was held, which this year had no clear winner, as the weather was so bad that items usually considered a luxury (too many spare clean clothes, for example) had pretty much all been declared essential. The spare pair of shoes I had brought as my luxury item I had long ago downgraded to utterly essential, bearing in mind the state of my trainers. My other luxury item, a mini Molten Brown shower gel had disappeared, as I had spent so long in the shower trying to warm up I had used it all up (and I don't consider shower gel a luxury item anyway, but this a contentious issue in the luxury item rules).

Suitably refuelled and restored, we pulled the curtains against the howling wind, cranked the heating up, and rested up ready for the adventures of tomorrow...

The New Forest Challenge

Challenge. One of those useful words used in interviews to make a nightmarish experience sound more like a constructive one. "Whilst I certainly found the relentless focus on targets a challenge (or, silently replace with "a complete nightmare"), I used this as an opportunity to develop my time management skills by finding more effective ways of working, to enable me to rise to the challenge and succeed in meeting those targets, for example by..... etc etc, ya di ya di yah. 

Although not being interviewed during my 65th marathon, I did have plenty of time to think that the word was fitting for this event for much the same reasons, making number 65 a challenge I certainly won't forget in a hurry.

The New Forest is one of my favourite places. Many happy runs and days out took place there when I was at uni in Southampton. I love standing at the top of a hill, and the the feeling of freedom looking out over the wide open spaces and taking in the glorious colours. We'd made a weekend of it visiting friends and family, and everything was lovely, and I was completely sure that the event was going to be a straightforward marathon. Navigation = tick, I know the area (well, sort of). Distance = tick, I felt confident in the 26 miles. Mental state = tick, I was looking forward to it and feeling good. Nutrition = tick, lots of checkpoints and refuelling opportunities. Kit = tick, all packed. Weather = tick, cold for sure, but sunny weather forecast. Hurrah - it was going to be fine!

But in a blog which I am conscious is becoming almost repetitive for things not going fine....guess what's going to happen......

To begin with, Andrew is still injured, so I was missing my running partner. Thanks though for hanging around all day. It must have been a drag....

And thanks for the lift to the start! I checked in, collected my check-in card, had a few minutes of 'kit faff' where I like to pointlessly rearrange everything in my bag a few times, and then bumped in to Kasia, a friend I met on the Winter Tanners...

We set off - it felt exhilarating to run in the cold air in the sunshine, and an added bonus of the cold was that the bogs were all frozen. The first checkpoint was only about 1.5 miles into the run, and was an unmanned checkpoint, which according to the instructions should be a sign with a random number on it, which you had to write down on your checking-in card. According to my carefully marked up map, it should be in a car park. Me, plus a bunch of other runners all arrived at the grid reference, but couldn't find the sign. Not anywhere. A few frantic minutes sped by running up and down, checking posts, signs, fences, but nothing. Bowing to peer pressure from my more confident fellow competitors, who all said it wouldn't matter, I tentatively carried on with them, but with a niggling feeling that I would already be disqualified for missing my first checkpoint. Soon after, I got chatting to a bloke who had found it (it was in the car park after all!) - and he kindly told me the number was 38! We found the second checkpoint and I proudly wrote down it's number with my free Ikea pencil - excellent. Soon after checkpoint 3 was found - things were going swimmingly! But as a wrote down it's number, the lead in my Ikea pencil snapped and fell somewhere into the mud below, leaving just a small, yet gaping, hole where the lead should be. Great. Now I had no way of writing down the numbers, of the next 8 checkpoints - EIGHT! How was I going to remember that many random numbers?

Cursing myself for bringing a pencil and not a pen (I mean, who uses a pencil, anyway?) I became aware that the niggling feeling of being disqualified for missing a number had quickly been replaced by a different but just as niggling feeling that despite obsessive checking of my carefully marked up map, and just as careful attention to my surroundings, I was struggling to figure out where on the map I was. Which is a long winded was of saying, I kept getting lost. I'd forgotten quite how many paths and tracks the New Forest has, snaking about all over the place; but only the main ones are marked on the OS maps, making it difficult to follow a route marked on a map, because what looks like crossing over say three cross tracks on the map could be any number of actual tracks on the ground. And with it being so big and open, there often isn't much else to reference against to guide a decision as to if this is actually the junction where you should turn left, or if it's an extra one.....I was getting increasingly frustrated at what felt like my total and overwhelming inability to work things out, and having to repeatedly stop and figure it out, usually incorrectly, only to see some brightly coloured dots running off ahead in a different direction....

Then I fell over. The first time. But this was expected, as I was wearing a new running outfit and I'm convinced that any time I have ever bought any new running clothes, I have fallen over on the first outing and either immediately got a hole in them, or made them muddy. At least today it was just mud.

Then I reached checkpoint 4, the first manned checkpoint. "Which are you!" asked the first of the two gentlemen recording people coming in. "26!" I replied. "Thanks!" the second gentleman exclaimed and wrote it down. A few others came in behind me, and I heard them all shouting out different numbers. Weird, I thought there were only two distances: 18 and 26. Oh. Of course, we should be giving the number on our check-in card. Obviously. I'm such a buffoon. I went back and sheepishly corrected my number to 21, my actual number. I beat a hasty retreat before anyone could pay to much attention to me....

I ate a kit-kat and realised I was ravenous. I had been stuffed as a gug with delicious food by Andrew's sister-in-law the night before, but thinking back I'd had a few days at the end of the week of being quite stressed and not eating as well as usual, and predictably had only really paid any attention to this fact at the moment when it was becoming apparent that I was not adequately fuelled for a hilly marathon in freezing weather. I became angry with myself again. Will I never learn the importance of good nutrition prior to a run? What with being a dietitian, and having been a runner for over 20 years? No, apparently not. 

I plodded on, waiting for the kit-kat to kick in, and soon made my first major navigational error. This was a costly mistake, adding on 1.5 miles to the distance. But aside from that sad fact, I met fellow runner Dave on the detour, who I ended up running the rest of the race with, and who as a veteran of 86 marathons was an entertaining and motivational running buddy - thank you Dave! I was glad to have someone else to consult as to the route as well, and although we continued to get lost for the rest of the run, it's not nearly so bad when you're with someone else to discuss how it was you went wrong and get back on track. He also kindly lent me his pen, so the pencil crisis was averted. 

At the next manned checkpoint I discovered in fact how great a buffoon I really was, when I noticed that my number was 210 and not 21. Following a short panic where I feared a search and rescue party might by now have been deployed from the last checkpoint to look for number 210 who by all accounts didn't seem to have turned up there yet, the marshals reassured me they would radio over to let them know. Good Lord. This event is turning into some kind of maths challenge. (Challenge! See!)

It took a few minutes to regain my stride after that. But soon the beauty of the forest seeped back into my consciousness. It was truly stunning out there. The sun shining and the air hazy, and all around that blue colour that penetrates everything on bright winter days. And the ponies, of course, the ponies!

A good few pleasant miles passed, taking in the views and the air, chatting, and the odd debate about the route. 

Then two things happened quickly.

First, I fell over again. A proper fall over this time, over a log and into a bog and all. Interestingly, I landed on my shoulder, and gained my first, maybe anyone's first, shoulder injury from running.

Then, at the final check-point, I realised my check-in card was missing. I assumed I'd pretty much covered all possible mistakes with this flipping check-in card by this point, but apparently the greatest was saved for the end. I had no idea where it had gone, and the only thing I could think was that it was somehow fallen out during my nose-dive into the bog. I had a complete melt down at this point, but Dave calmly stated that as we'd run most of the race together he would vouch for me at the end, and it was no problem. I was grateful for his kindness and coolness under pressure, but spent the last 3 miles in a complete panic and dreading the finish when I would have to explain myself.

But it in the end it was all fine. After a brief explanation and apology for my absentmindedness, the marshals registered my number (which fortunately I could remember by now) and it was made official (thank you Dave and the marshals at the end for your understanding!)

I even set a PeBeDe - a personal best detour - for the furthest extra distance run over the actual distance of an event- 29 miles instead of 26. Three extra miles for free!

A delicious plate of vegetarian lasagne, some bread and butter, a hot cup of tea and a nice chat to some fellow runners, and everything was well again, and the nightmares of all the maths challenges faded away. It was a brilliant event and I loved it despite the challenges (which were mostly my own making anyway). I recommend it, and hope to be back (maybe I'll find my check-in card next year). Thank you to the organisers (the Wessex LDWA) and fellow entrants for a great day. 

I hurried off home to wash the mud out of my new running clothes, and sharpen my pencil.....