Into battle

The title refers not to the battle between runners and running clubs, more to the battle between runner and the weather, the terrain, the map and the clock. Fourteen glossopdale runners headed to the Shropshire hills on what I know to be statistically the coldest weekend of the year. Our aim, the mini-series of races hosted by Mercia fellrunners each year. The short Titterstone Clee and the medium Long Mynd Valleys. As a relative novice at the medium races, I was apprehensive, as a clubmate had used the word 'horrendous' to describe the last section if the course.
Saturday dawned cold and bright, and as we sat eating porridge, toast and eggs in the beautiful dining hall at Wilderhope Manor youth hostel, a flurry of snow was observed through the fine sixteenth century windows. There's only one way to prepare mentally for a fell race on winter and that is to laugh. The practical preparations saw a hush fall on the ladies dorm, as each of us pondered choices of leggings, waterproof coats, gloves and a set of warm clothing for afterwards. One even remarked 'i'll be packing normal clothes then for after if we're going for a cream tea' me, I stuck to tracky bottoms and my down jacket. It was at this point the selection of armour and weapons sprung to mind. Wind and waterproof armour, studded soled weapons, sugary and slow-release weapons. And some left over for tomorrow.
I predictably enjoyed the Titterstone Clee race, a traditional fell race in the simplest of fashions. 'see that hill; get to the top, touch the trig and get back down here' marred by the new Regulations imposed by our governing body which saw racers get colder than necessary as we were counted into the start area and briefed in no uncertain terms as to how to wear our race number and indicate our completion of the course. Thanks to my legs having chilled off, the first few minutes were hard work, my legs not giving me the usual lightfooted quick ascent. The snow blew at us head-on and I grimaced and bore it across soft springy terrain with a few rocks to keep one alert. Approaching the top, I noted how many returning ladies passed by, which was two. Splendid. I relished the wind-assisted descent and dug in and refused to give a place up on the last field as I heard splashy footsteps behind me. Charlie, a clubmate, had other ideas and manfully beat me in the last few hundred metres. A box of toffees for my third lady position and off to Ludlow for a cream tea.
Sundays forecast was much drier though I still feared Winter so decided on a backpack with many extra layers and handwarmers and cheese and nuts and water for the race. I'm very glad I didn't choose fleece-lined leggings as it later turned out to be much warmer than we'd expected. Why on earth I didn't expect a steep start as we stood at the base of a steep-sided valley I'll never know, bit off we went at a steady pace. We being Tom and I. We'd decided to treat the race as a fun run about on the hills and to hell with competition, he due to recent injury and I due to my inexperience. Sticking together makes for a mental comfort blanket and we had spent some time looking at possible route choices the night before.
 I soon realised I had not got the pace I'd hoped for in the first few miles and began to worry, though to his credit Tom seemed unfazed and wisely offered me jelly babies. I then set about fuelling up with solid food both to keep me from further fretting and enable me to acquit myself on the later climbs. On one fuelling stop Lindsey from our group shot past us, giving me a scare - I normally finish races a few minutes ahead of her. It gave us a kick..we came to what we'd identified as a decision point and Tom wanted to follow the herd (and Lindsey) it took me three times of asking to get us off onto our preferred route, hot on the heels of the local runners, who on seeing us explained the advantage we could gain on this line. We smugly popped out of the next valley about 50 metres ahead of Lins. My strength had returned and not a minute too early...two more monster hills to cross. I love climbing and Tom loves descending, I'll spare you the details but we made it over the monsters, I enjoying it more than Tom, we however made a poor choice of descending line to the finish, and with our team-mates voices yelling encouragement in earshot, tumbled and cursed through high bracken whilst Lins shot out 20metres from the finish line to pip us to the finish.
I learned from the Long Mynd Valleys. I learned that I worry too much and it holds me back. I learned that I'm still a decent climber, that good route choice is worth more than speed and that reccying the finishing descent is a cracking good idea. And that Tom is an all round decent bloke for putting up with my first-half wobbler. Oh, and gorse splinters take a while to come out.