“I told you we should have stuck to the tracks.”

Vern, Stand By Me

I don’t dish out any coaching, training, or equipment advice on here. I mean, who the fuck am I? I’m just some chunky bloke from Shields who likes running. Most of the time.

Having said that, if Nike want to pay me a few grand to plug water bottles, this place will be full of selfies of me sucking from them like a newborn quicker than you can shout ‘fucking sell out.’

The only advice I ever give out, and only because I’m asked for it, happens every January. A non-runner will get in touch, tell me they’re going to start running, and what tips can I give them.

Easy. Don’t start running in January. It’s cold, it’s dark, the weather’s shite, you’ll hate it and give up. I find the whole month a slog. Start in the Spring, you’ll thank me later.

So, here I am in the first week in January, lined up at the start for a 12k race in the mud. Honestly, I’m my own worst enemy sometimes.

This is also going to be my last race for at least 6 months. Marathon training starts next week, so this is my final jolly before I get stuck into 16 weeks of disciplined running.

As for this race, I’ve never actually run it before. I have marshalled it though. It’s organised by my Club, but I don’t do mud or anything that even has a whiff of Cross fucking Country about it, so I’ve just helped out instead. This year though, why not?

Course wise, this one is a bit different from a ‘normal’ race, in that it has a mix of everything – beach, cliffs, climbs, trails, mud, and a track finish. It’s probably the most random 12k you’ll ever run.

It’s also a bit of a no pressure race. No one is looking for a time. Due to the random terrain, your pace will be all over the shop. It also seems that no one really cares what position they finish either. It’s just a bit of ‘fun’ apparently. Something to shake out the last bits of Christmas overindulgence. I’ll be the judge of both those things.

How much ‘fun’ you’ll have is down to the weather. Not just the weather on the day, but what it’s been like in the weeks and days before.

And guess what it’s done most of the week leading up to this? That’s right, it’s pissed down with rain and sleet. Oh goody.

But before we get to the mud wrestling, we’re on the beach. This ain’t Saint Tropez either. It’s the North Sea, it’s 3C, it’s windy, and, guess what, it’s pissing down again!

I have been expecting it though. I can’t be the only runner who is constantly checking their weather app. We’re actually lucky we’re by the coast, the rest of the country is caked in snow. I’m wearing my club vest, gloves, beanie, and I’m double layered everywhere. I don’t want to die in the woods.

Rather than invest in Trail Shoes, today is the day I’m going to kill off my Brooks Launch 9s instead. They have served me well, but they are now very much end of life. It’s going to be a quagmire out there, therefore their sacrifice will be a noble one.

It’s a 10am start, but have I mentioned the weather is crap? Despite only living half a mile from the start line, I don’t leave my house till the last possible moment I can get away with it.

It’s even crapper down the beach. It’s an Easterly wind, coming straight off the North Sea. I blame Denmark for this misery. I see one of the guys from my group and we do the usual run chat. The weather and our running shoes basically.

We all line up, wait for the shout, then we’re off. No messing, away we go. We’re going to be on the beach for just over a mile. Apart from that minging side wind, this is actually ok.

Now, I’m really not arsed on my time for this. As mentioned earlier, no one really is. However, I do note that early doors this is pretty quick. I also know, once we get in the mud, it’ll drop quite dramatically.

We’ve run out of beach and reached the stairs to get back up to the Prom. Unfortunately, due to the Storms, a lot of sand has been washed away. This leaves quite a big gap between beach and step. So like a first round of Takeshi’s Castle, we’re all climbing and scrambling up it. And if you’re a short arse like me, the struggle is real.

Up on the Prom, the wind is an absolute bastard. We’re only on here a short time thank Christ, before we hit the first bit of trail that goes across the cliff tops. Thankfully, we won’t see that wind again. Instead, who fancies a bit of water, mud and ice? Yah!

I know this section quite well, although I only run on it during Spring and Summer. Because, the rest of the time, it’s a total puddle shit show. Like today.

Because of the snow/sleet/rain combo we had during the night and early this morning, these aren’t normal puddles. They’re death traps. Slippier than a Tory MP.

After avoiding falling off a cliff and being swept out to sea towards those weather sending bastards in Denmark, we’re back on glorious tarmac. This brief piece of road running heaven will also be the last time the phrase ‘I’m actually enjoying this’ will pop into my head today.

You see, we’re about to drop onto the real cluster fuck of the course – Holywell Dene. Sounds idilic doesn’t it? On a warm June evening it is. It’s a beautiful woodland walk, following the path of a stream, into where the Dene and the old Wagonway meet. Chocolate box stuff.

Box full of turds today. As soon as we’re on it, it’s a mess. Water and ice everywhere. My trusty old Brooks struggling to find any type of grip. If I escape this without going on my arse at least once I’ll be staggered.

We’re going to be on this tiny death trap of a path for just shy of 2 miles. It’s also very up and down. Not massive ups and downs, but with all this ice, the ankle snapping danger levels are quite high.

I’m no gung ho madman. So whilst I’m maintaining a decent running pace, I’m looking down A LOT. I’m over working and tensing up to try and avoid flying. The next day, I’ll wake up with sore legs, something I never get.

Although, on the plus side, I feel like I’m getting used to the conditions. I mean, my feet can’t get any wetter, so who gives a shit if I run through another puddle?

At 4.5 miles you have a dilemma. The path splits in two. It will meet again in about half a mile, but you have a choice – Hill now, or Hill later. Go left and it’s flat now, but you’ll climb at the end. Go right, it’s a climb straight away, but then you’ve got it done and it levels off.

I choose right. Partly because lots of people who’ve done this before advised me to, and partly because I’ve given up giving a fuck. Let’s just get it out the way eh?

After half a mile of that, we’re hitting sort of the home straight. Ish. We’re going to come off the Dene path and take a hard left on to the Wagonway. This will be a straight 2 mile to the finish.

The path here is just as crap as the Dene. Wet, icy, and slippy. But at least it’s flat. I know this part of the course very well. I live right next to it, so run here a lot. Again though, NOT IN THE FUCKING WINTER.

Up until a couple of years ago, weather like this would make a section of this completely impassable without wading through knee deep water. Thankfully, they did some drainage work, so there may still be giant puddles, but at least they’re only puddles. I’m not a Duck.

As I know the end is nigh, I get a second wind. I feel quite good, and I’m picking off a few runners. I’m massively uncompetitive, but I won’t lie, I do get a perverse pleasure from passing people near the end of races. Especially those Vegan Runners. I’ll get emails.

All that is left to do is come off the Wagonway, cross the Cricket pitch, and finish on the Track. Easy right? Well, it all almost goes tits up. Having survived the treacherous underfoot in the Dene, I run onto the pitch and nearly go flying. Oh the irony.

Unscathed, I’ve never been so happy to get on the Track. Thankfully, I’ve only got to run 300m of it. I’ve mentioned before that I’m built for endurance rather than speed, but I have a good go at attempting a sprint finish. Bless me. I finish in 1:01:02, with a rather tidy pace of 8:12 a mile. Nice.

There is no medal or t-shirt for finishing this one. Instead, it’s a rather snazzy buff. Who doesn’t love a buff?

All that is left for me to do is pop into our Clubhouse for the infamous post race cake selection. For the record, I demolish a rather large chunk of Chocolate Orange cake. Wanting to avoid trouble when I get back home, I buy cakes for the wife and daughter before I leave. Up there for thinking, down there for dancing.

Did I enjoy this race? Well, sort of. Brilliantly organised by the Club as always, of that there is no doubt, I just don’t do trails and mud. This run certainly reinforced that, I can tell you. No Cross fucking Country.

Having said that, I’m really glad I did it. You know why? It was good that it was hard. I start Marathon training next week, I needed to know that when the going gets tough, I’ve got the balls of steel to push through it.

This race gave me those balls. Of steel.

Now bring on the Marathon..