Thirteen miles in and absolutely no mojo. The legs are moving enough to make the ground pass by but every check of the watch suggests that I should consider a different hobby.
In retrospect I had not given the event enough due consideration. It was local and relatively inexpensive. Couple this with a lack of competing draws upon my time for the day and it was something of a no-brainer. Another step towards a nebulous goal which was of no relevance in the real world or to anyone in full possession of their senses. Only semi-regular checks of the calendar reminded me that this was upcoming and whilst surrounded by similar events with similar names in similar locations it had not registered meaningfully outside of the convenience of its location and thus how late I would be able to set the alarm, and how soon I could be home once the task was complete. Much to my surprise, somebody had put hills in Leicestershire. Not unreasonably, the organisers of the Charnwood Marathon thought that we should go over them.
The day had started well. I was still in bed at six and awoke naturally before the alarm had a chance to get into its repertoire. A leisurely breakfast of the exact same things I eat before every such event. Even time to choose running kit and pack those vital bits and bobs that make the first hour post-race a more humane experience. The fact that these things were not already sitting in their bag and awaiting collection as I moved between the bed and the event was a sure sign of my lackadaisical planning. Somehow I managed to leave the house later than planned and despite a lack of traffic on the pleasantly short hour journey, I was later that I would have wanted to be on arrival. Even so, the efficient team had me parked one hundred and fifty metres from the race headquarters quickly and with time to spare I had made use of the of the bathroom, amazingly lacking a queue to do the excellent choice of headquarters, something unheard of pre-race of almost any size, and registered with the organisers whilst asking a few questions about the route and checkpoints. I had also overheard two people talking about others who had turned up to the event only to find out it was on trails rather than the roads. How could anyone be so disorganised? In my mind, I worried that they probably did not have the route instructions and were probably set for a rough day. It also served to remind me that I should probably use the remaining ten minutes to find my running shoes and dig my own instructions from the car foot well.
A nine o'clock start by the local crier and we were off jogging down the street of the small town. There were a number of faces in the crowd to whom this would be old hat. People you start to recognise after spending your weekends doing enough of these things. Some you will have spoken to on other days. Some of whom you are vaguely aware have completed enough of these things to number their marathons in the high hundreds. A whispered few even more than that. There were only two who's names were known to me, one due to a period of time running together a fortnight before, and the other being another Northampton runner who I should really spend more time talking to about their plans in this area. I have noted him at nearly a dozen of these days but spoke to him for the first time at a road marathon seven days earlier and even then it was the exchange of pleasantries toward the end of the many, many laps of an airfield near Stratford.
And it was that road marathon that was on my mind during the early miles. For all of the trail marathons and ultras undertaken, it is road marathons that can leave my legs feeling jaded for days and weeks afterward. This year, there simply is not time for that. My legs seemed to be moving relatively smoothly considering the short recovery time from the pounding of tarmac, but I was looking forward to getting to the trails and with them, the excuse to walk whenever I saw fit. The name of the game here is to get around without injury and quickly enough to get home and shower and a few hours of relaxation the mind would turn to the next challenge. Smoothly moving legs was good, but I was a little worried as to how long it would last.
And so it was that I reached the thirteen mile mark. Stepping off the roads to the mud and grass had been good but it had also begun the start of the hills. I was happy to walk these as had been the plan, but the volume of uphill had started to move my thoughts of a jog around five hours fifteen, a reasonable time for a self-navigated jaunt off-road, to a slow slog of six hours which could get worse if those legs did not hold up after the abuse of the previous week. This was not the simple ticking off of another marathon before a more challenging week of running that I had had in mind.
The idea of joining the 100 Marathon Club had been peculating for a couple of years. I could not honestly say way. Last year I started to tot up the number of events that I had completed already and begun dropping it into the proforma required of the club. Those training events booked months in advance would be added each weekend, or not if the draw of sleeping in had become to much. When all was said and done, 2016 ended with my tally on forty eight. Two shy of the figure required to join as an associate and woefully short of the hundred required for full membership. Fifty two short to be precise. I had no fixed goals for 2017 at that point, but the glaring gap of those fifty two marathons and the convenient fifty two weeks in the upcoming year gnawed at me. And then the bookings started. An LDWA event here, a small ultra there. Occasional weekends of back to back races as commitments were already in place for some weekends of the year and despite the size of the task, I was keen to keep some freedom to attend other shorter running events which brought me pleasure in the past. Race the Train sharing the top of the list with the Pen-y-Fan fell races (the latter of which will no doubt see me fall down the side of the mountain again as I expect to have even less ability for delicate and nimble footwork). Only some way through these bookings did I realise that the 100 Marathon Club had a requirement for ten of the qualifying events to be classified as road. Now I understand the draw of a road marathon for those looking to challenge themselves to a time, but as someone looking to remain relatively fresh and very much uninjured, the thought was sobering. But through luck rather than judgement, six road marathons were already part of my back catalogue. Some options for those other four were penciled in and a couple eventually booked.
Early in the planning of the races for 2017, I had it in mind to try and wrap up the hundred events with time to spare. I have an idea of running in the club cross-country season and an overlap of the two challenges could be enough to flatten me. It has been the bringing forward of that hundredth marathon that was on my mind during the second half of Charnwood. With a Sunday to relax and recuperate, the following Monday would be the start of three marathons in three days. The idea itself is not terrifying, but without taper and the wish to remain fresh to the point of not requiring too much recovery, the worry about injuries through overuse are real. Mentally, a smooth Charnwood would have been a good sidle into the week. And despite the soul destroying first half, things evened out as they usually do. Miles slid by. The weather moved between cloud and drizzle with enough regularity that you were always cool but never cold enough to reach for the jacket. Gradually the head lifted enough to observe and enjoy the views from some of the peaks in the second half. Runners who had not been seen since leaving the first village started to appear in the near distance only to disappear behind after a few miles. The run was wrapped up in a time that I would have settled for at the start. Other than the odd bramble scratch, I appeared to be absent of injury. And fifteen minutes after finishing I was driving home whilst preparing a theoretical packing list for the following evening.
And so I sit in the YHA bunkhouse in All Stretton with enough running clothes to start a small shop. The first of the three marathons will commence in twelve hours, but it is not the first one that worries me. All three have barely any elevation change and are routed on light trail, a converted train line. The lack of hills would be seen by most as a blessing, and it does mean that they should be wrapped up more quickly, but for me it takes away those easy options of walking, and it means the use of the same muscles for each stride. The risk of injury seems higher here than any any point of the year so far.
And with the next event seven days from today, there really is no time for that.
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