Completing my first trail race (beyond my high school years) was a personal accomplishment, while revealing some truths about terrain, distance, and performance. It was my longest time spent running, at over four hours, and I was very glad to approach the finish line — I was pretty spent by the end. The morning after, besides a stiff tendon near my right knee, I was surprised by the lack of overnight cramps and that I wasn’t too worse for wear. But Garmin says three days to fully recover and I’ll happily obey.
The Mourne Skyline races were well organised. I chose to have my kit inspected and collect my bib the day before the race — obligatory for those registered for the Skyline Ultra that started at 7.00am the next morning, but optional for those in the other two races, who could collect their bibs an hour before their race starts. If there was something amiss with my kit, I would have overnight to sort it out. My kit passed inspection, after buying a survival bag on the spot, and I got my bib and technical t-shirt.
I noticed a contingent of Spanish/Basque runners, all young and wearing matching team puffer jackets. They looked like they were here on a mission.
On the way home, I noticed that the main road in Dundrum would be closed at 8.30am the next morning. So, that influenced my decision for an earlier departure; I didn’t want to navigate diversions on race day morning.
As I laid out my kit on my bed before heading to bed, the GPS tracker device affixed with yellow tape to my running vest blinked away. The race organisers would know when I was on my way to the course.
I drove through Dundrum at 8.25am, missing the road closure. Upon arrival, I texted my friend and postgraduate colleague. We met up for a pre-race chat. She is used to running longer distances and considered today “a fun-run”.
I also bumped into a teammate from the Belfast Association of Rock-climbers and Fell-runners (BARF), who introduced me to another BARF runner. He and I were wearing the same BARF singlet, with him wearing nothing underneath it, while I wore a long-sleeve, quick-wicking top. He looked more like the seasoned competitor, while I was going more for comfort.
The hundred or so of us started bang on time. I did well not to go out too fast. I kept an eye on my heartrate on my Garmin watch. Right away, I was glad that I did a few recces, so that no part of the course was new to me (except Slieve Donard). That kept me from going too hard, not knowing what would be next.
A fellow runner of about my age (by appearance) and I kept passing each other back and forth, all the way up to “the saddle”. We joked with each other that we’d see each other again. Actually, when he next passed me that was the last that I saw of him.
My first trail run fall happened when I misplaced my right foot on a short scramble up a rock. Mercifully it was an upwards not downwards fall. I only scraped my shin bone below the knee. A fellow runner asked if I was okay. I replied, “Yes, thanks. Hopefully my first and only fall today!” Thankfully it was.
It was a sometimes tricky, technical descent down the narrow path to Hare’s Gap. But I practised on this the previous week, so it wasn’t unfamiliar. I was keeping my heart rate low and felt like I was making good pace. At Hare’s Gap, there were plenty of officials to guide our turn. This answered my question of which side of the wall we were to run — the eastern, inside side, which I knew was going to be lumpy.
At the end of mile six, my watch chirped, showing time elapsed about 1 hour and 40 minutes. I knew the big climbs were ahead of me, but could I finish in under four hours?
The first of three climbs were aided by some easy stone steps at the start. I was able to walk the rest with my arms in a mock-walking pole (“air poles”) movement. The descent was trouble-free.
The second climb was a bit harder. No stone steps. No clear dominant trail path. Some particularly steep sections, where I had to put my hands on my quad to help propel me up. It was the height of the climb that felt relentless. A fellow runner who had by now stopped twice for leg cramps said, looking upwards to the hill disappearing into the mist, “I hope that’s the top.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that, one, I knew it went beyond that and, two, there was still Slieve Donard to climb. I carried on and found the descent challenging — again, steep drops with no clear path.
I passed the saddle and fixed my gaze at the small dots of runners on either side of the wall towards the peak of Slieve Donard. Getting up and down is going to take me a while, I told myself. Almost an hour, actually.
My postgraduate colleague breezed past me, running with her poles. This is definitely the place to have them. (But I remain honest with myself that I didn’t have time to train with them for this race.) I stayed close to the wall for much of the climb, which on one hand was harder because it was steeper in parts, but on the other hand I could use my left arm to grab the wall for some stability. I stopped a few times just for quick recovery and take in some honey-based gels, but I knew that I was only going to reach the summit by keeping moving.
I felt a sense of relief when I finally made it to the top, climbing over the steps. There were a few fellow runners as well as ordinary hikers absorbing the vista. Well, what we could actually see was a surreal sense of sky, as we were above the low cloud yet with high cloud above us. I made this my unofficial pit stop, and spent less than five minutes to take some photos, drink some fluids, eat some dried apricots (which were exceptionally delicious in my condition), before resuming the rest of the course, which was all descent.
The run down the stone steps started well, but soon became very steep, just as on the way up. I found myself walking down, not wanting to fall. This was a lot of work and I could start to feel the pressure on my feet and calves.
Back at the saddle, I felt another sense of relief because I knew the rest of the course from having run down this section twice before. I knew that the start of this descent would be very steep, so I took it easy. What surprised me was that where I knew it was less steep, my pace did not quicken. Ah, I was starting to fatigue. My four-hour completion time was not likely to be met. I went into get-to-the-finish-in-one-piece mode. The stone steps were relentless — I was really resenting them by now. I was also having to concentrate on staying focused — those moments when your body and mind just want to stop.
At the base of the climb, I was so happy, knowing that there would be no more stones to navigate. So, I thought, at last I can open up and run the last two miles on the gravel road freely, like I know how. But my legs replied, “Not so fast.” They were heavy as lead. I felt bittersweet, because while I was emotionally enjoying this section of run through the forest the most, I couldn’t physically respond with the pace that I wanted. Indeed, a very heavy runner trotted past me and I couldn’t be bothered with a response.
It was a classic sense of the last mile feeling like forever — complete mental and physical fatigue. I just worked on staying calm, knowing that if I kept moving, the end would present itself. I could hear the event loudspeakers in the near distance.
One last piece of technical running over tree roots and relatively straight line to the finish. I mustered the energy to make it look like at least a fast jog as I crossed the line. I planned to give a thumbs-up or number-one finger gesture, but completion was the only thing on my mind. No idea what facial expression the official photographer captured.
To my delight, my postgraduate colleague was there and called out my name. “Congratulations!” she said. I thanked her and told her that that was the first time I’d ever hiked up a mountain. We swapped race notes while consuming vegetable soup, which was just what I needed (my gut was feeling acidic).
After doing some post-run stretches, I had barely calmed myself when she suggested that I consider some marathon runs organised by We Run Wild. Well, perhaps the half-marathon courses, I think. She had to dash off — the competing priorities of running, parenting, and postgraduate research duties. I went to a local pub, with a blazing fire in the fireplace, where I treated myself to a cheeseburger and a pint of ale.
Afterwards, I went to the event venue, Newcastle Baptist Church, for the awards ceremonies. I sat in one of the few chairs available — it felt good to be seated — and absorbed the atmosphere of ambition and accomplishment, yet with friendly camaraderie. Mindful of my pedestrian completion time of over four hours for 20K, I was amazed by the finishing times of the top runners in all of the distances. I mean, 50K with 3,500m ascent in under 8 hours — goodness me. And those Spaniards and Basque teams? They took home many trophies. I hope they had a mighty celebration before they returned home.
On my return home, both of my feet were cramping badly while I was driving. It was touch and go whether I would have to stop. Just like the run, I had to focus on the finish line, home, for the last 10 minutes, according to Google Maps. With switching between my right and left foot on the accelerator, just like the race I got to the end in one piece.
