“Don’t bother to buckle up – you may not want to survive this.”
Eric Qualin, Cliffhanger
A running joke (no pun intended) I have, when talking about races I’ve signed up for, is this;
“Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
It’s a very British self-deprecating humour way of dealing with things. A touch of justification, with a smidge of coping mechanism. You’ve signed up for something you know you’ll need to train for, and that is also potentially going to be hard. But ultimately (and importantly) you want to do it.
So you ‘joke’ about it.
Except when it comes to the North Tyneside Trail Run. In this instance, I really mean it. Why? Why have I singed up to do this again? I have no excuse. I have first hand experience of this 7 miles of pain. It’s Cross Country on Crack. And I fucking hate Cross Country.
Having said all that, there is a sort of method behind this absolute madness. The NT Trail Run usually takes place on the first Sunday after the New Year.
So it’s always there over the Christmas period, winking at me suggestively like a pissed up cougar, as I reach into the Quality Street tin for one last Green Triangle.
It’s difficult enough finding motivation in January. Suddenly feeling and looking 4 months pregnant doesn’t help.
And then there’s the weather. January and February in the UK are generally the shittest months of the year. Last year, we had snow overnight and the course was a clusterfuck. That won’t happen again. We’d have to be really unlucky.
And then 24 hours before the race, I wake up to this:
Shite.
I’d only got up to go to Parkrun. I slump off back to bed, pull the duvet over my head, and try not to think about trudging through that white shite this time tomorrow.
Then, at 6pm, a glorious email. The race is off. Large parts of it are an absolute shit show. Unlike last year, the snow is much heavier and the temperature much colder. This stuff is not only going nowhere, it’s only going to get worse. Quite rightly, the sensible decision is to cancel. It will be rearranged, date tbc.
Phew.
Now, close your eyes, tap your heels, and let’s time travel to March 8th..
That snow ended up hanging around all week, like a relative at Christmas you just can’t get rid of. Just like that relative though, by March it’s just a distant memory that will hopefully be dead by next year. I’m joking of course. It depends on if it’s a close relative or not.
After the snow went, it then pretty much pissed down non stop for two months. I’m not even joking. The majority of the UK was hit by a weather block, which in this instance was just shit loads upon shit loads of rain. Really depressing stuff.
By race day, the worst of it is well behind us, and it’s almost been ‘spring’ like. However, the sheer amount we’ve had will see a large section of the route caked in mud.
Oh fucking goody.
That’s actually going to be the least of my problems. Today is a classic case of ‘fail to prepare, prepare to fail.’ Three dickhead decisions in the build up are going to haunt me.
- On the Tuesday at the Grand Prix, I break my 5k PB (21:46)
- I do Parkrun the day before this race, where the voices in my head tell me running slow is for pussies and I do a 22:31, a second off my course PB.
- The biggest fuck up of the week. I’m at the match on the Saturday night, where I swear blind I’ll just have a ‘couple of pints before’ then head off straight after. Unfortunately, I accidentally down 8.
Sunday morning I wake up as expected. The tired legs of a man who’s hammered out two fast 5ks, the groggy head of an idiot who drank too much and got in after midnight.
This is not going to go end well.
I force coffee, porridge, toast and a protein bar down me. Then it’s off to the Club House to pick up my number and dump a change of clothes. Well, some socks and trainers. I’m expecting the ones I finish in to be an absolute state, and Mrs Notbuilttorun has threatened to stick them up my arse if they come within 5 foot of the front door.
Just on the bibs, they are always great for this race. In fact, I think this years is the best yet.
One positive for today, I can’t complain about logistics. I live round the corner from the Club House, so once I’ve picked up my number, I can nip back home. Possible to call the whole thing off and crawl back under the duvet.
The Club House is also where we’ll finish. Therefore that duvet option will be quickly available once I stagger over the line. Going back to bed as quickly as possible is my motivation today, I’m not going to lie.
Wanker Weather Watch time (I need a sponsor for this) it’s sunny with a slight chill in the air. I spend far too much time arguing with myself about whether to wear a base layer or not. In the end I do. Welcome to mistake number 4.
I leave the house for a ‘gentle’ warm up jog down to the start on the beach. This is about a mile and it’s the point I know I’m in trouble. I feel like shite.
This should be fun then. On to the beach for the start. Here, I realise it’s really not as cold as I thought. In fact, in my base layer, I’m feeling warm already. Too warm. And we haven’t started yet.
Anyway. Pre-race instructions delivered, we’re off. Like a wanky version of Chariots of Fire. Talking of fires, I really am hot now. It’s not like I can lose this base layer either. It’s on underneath my club vest. The logistics of taking it off in my delicate post pintage state make my head hurt even more.
I’ve started at a fair pace and notice my heart rate is in Zone 5. I’ve probably only run about 400 metres. I decide this will be the last time I look at my watch today. I couldn’t give a shite. Between the raised heart rate, the over-layering, and the hangover, I just don’t want to die this morning.
I finally get off the beach, which felt like 3 miles but was actually less than 1, and onto the upper prom towards the Lighthouse. Here, it’s first photo time. I like this photo because it looks like I’m winning.
Just before the causeway to the Lighthouse we turn to get onto the cliffs and…well…I may be hotter than the surface of the sun and have the hear rate of someone who’s popped an E, but I somehow smash out one of the greatest running photos of all time. I mean, look at that.
That’s as good as it’s going to get. I’m on the cliff path now, not even on mile 2 of 7, and I hate this run. I’m suffering. I feel like I’m hitting a decent ish pace, but as I refuse to look at my watch, I have no idea. Or care.
After the cliff path we get a short downhill on the road, but this does nothing to help cheer me up. Because we haven’t even got to the part of course I really hate yet. That’s next.
That’s right, time to hit the Dene. Tight trail paths that go up and down. Up and down. Up and fucking down. Every up is just an absolute effort. I dread to think what my heart rate is doing now. I still can’t look.
Have I mentioned I’m hot? Christ I’m overheating. It’s not going to get any easier either. At mile 4 we hit ‘the hill’. A short, sharp climb in the Dene that is an infamous/notorious/fucking awful part of the course.
Let’s just get this over with. I attack it and it’s a shit show. At the top, I have a real fear that this mornings porridge is about to make a guest appearance. I manage to suppress this, but I am now officially absolutely fucked.
We drop down onto the Wagonway, which will take us on a 2 mile flat path to home. I’m running on fumes now. I have nothing left. I haven’t felt like this in a race for a long time. Years even. A club member takes this photo of me with around a mile left and the camera does indeed lie. I am dying here.
I can safely say I pass no one on this last stretch. At least, not that I remember. I am pretty positive that everyone on the photo below finished ahead of me though.
We come off the Wagonway, across the Cricket pitch, and onto the track for a 300m sprint finish. I come on to the track side by side with a bloke who shouts across ‘come on, me and you, one last push, sprint to the finish.’
To which I reply ‘mate, I have fuck all left, you crack on.’ He does, I follow him in, and finish the 7.4 mile course with a 58:59. 3 minutes faster than last year. I have no idea how.
I see some of my fellow club runners at the finish and they ask me if I enjoyed that. No, I reply, I hated every fucking single second of it. That’s a conversation stopper, I can tell you.
I’m hot, somehow more hungover than I started, and have taken no pleasure from this run at all.
Look, it’s a great course, superbly organised, but take this review as a cautionary tale. It’s not big or clever to drink heavily the night before a run.
Want some proof of that? My heart rate was in Zone 5 the entire 7.4 miles. I’m just happy to be alive.
I grab some cake and head straight for home, where, after a quick shower, I get under the duvet.
I told you I would.
