Moyleman - Lewes marathon: notes from the back of the pack
When I heard about an offroad marathon in my own town, up and down the hills we love to hate, I immediately wanted to do it. Especially as it was being organised in memory of a local runner who sounded like a great chap. I’d run four marathons (two hilly off-road ones) and an ultra, but that was a long time ago and somehow I’d accidentally stopped running for about four years. I had some doubts about whether I could get enough fitness back in time, but decided to go for it.
Given the very small field - only 61 marathon runners - and the fact that only speedy club runners would’ve heard about this as it wasn’t publicly advertised, I suspected I might well be last. Coming out of unintended retirement to do five months training from a standing start, hampered by an immediate calf injury that wasted weeks, was never going to be enough for a course like this. I was familiar with most of the route, and my running partners and I did much of our training on various sections. Based on this, I had hopes of coming in under the sort of unofficial 5.30 cut-off time.
With just over a week to go the weather was looking excellent, but as the day approached the forecast changed until we had 80% chance of heavy rain. I tried to keep the faith that it just might not happen - and amazingly, it didn’t. There was the small matter of an unusual ENE headwind at one of the worst hills but considering how bad things could’ve been, I’m not complaining!
Off we went at 10.00 and right away almost the entire field surged ahead and a small group of us at the back plodded along, up familiar paths to Blackcap and then along the South Downs Way for a few miles heading gently downhill before hitting some wooded hills, crossing over a bridge, and then starting up a long but perfectly runnable climb to Castle Hill and Kingston Ridge.
At the top, I had a nasty shock when the marshalls directed us to the right instead of straight on, and I realised we’d been training on the wrong path all this time! Now we went down, down, down in a most worrying way into a valley I’ve never seen before, before eventually making the inevitable climb back up. Then it was the Yellow Brick Road, which can be punishing on tiring quads but wasn’t too bad, and down a short hill so steep it was hard to walk, let alone run.
As we approached the half-way point, I’m sorry to admit my mind was making unhelpful plans of pulling out. My running partner and I were the last of the marathoners, followed only by two runners doing the half marathon relay. It was rather demoralising to be running along with people who were stopping at 13 miles. And knowing their fresh-legged second-half counterparts would quickly overtake us within minutes. I wished the half could have looped back to town earlier on a different route, or have started earlier, and not involve a relay. I began to feel embarassed at being too slow. The sweeper bikes had been scooting back and forth for miles, collecting up the signs, and it was uncomfortable knowing they had to be there just because of us.
But somehow my legs went on autopilot through the halfway station, and we were on the seriously massive Itford Hill. In training, we’d run most of it but now it was all we could do to walk up the first, steepest bit. I kept expecting the two second-leg half-marathoners to pass us but they never did. (It turns out they’d actually gone on ahead ages ago, which rather defeats the concept of a relay!)
At the steep switchback road descent of Po Beep Bostal, my running partner’s knee gave out and she had to drop to a pace on the old coach road which was too slow for me to run so I would get a bit ahead and then wait. But somehow this was even more painful than stumbling along at my own pace, and I regretfully had to abandon her, though I felt better when I saw her escort of sweeper bikes alongside.
Those last seven miles completely on my own, with only the occasional hint of a red jacket far far ahead, were mentally the toughest. It was an effort not to focus on the pain, to try to think positively instead of repeating ‘never again’ as I was exhausted, legs aching in so many ways, and the temptation to just stop and walk - or lie down in a ditch - was strong. There weren’t as many marshalls along this second half but the purple arrows were clear (except at one point I missed a sign and actually ran into a barn full of cows, which was quite funny!) I was also getting wobbly, feeling dizzy, and more than one marshall asked if I was alright - I could feel myself swaying alarmingly if I stopped for a second to accept a jelly baby or water. The hard-baked rutted track through the ploughed field before Glynde was too rough and uneven to run without risk of falling over. I was glad it was too cold and windy for anyone to be sitting outside as I passed the pub in the village.
The last seriously big hill up Mount Caburn at 24 miles was impossible to run even a little at this point. Walking up was hard enough. And then something happened that has never happened before - at the top of the hill, as I tried to start running again on the flat bit, both calves instantly went into cramp - I’ve never had cramp in any race before. Fortunately it gradually subsided with gentle running, but was always lurking and ready to come back. Finally, there was nothing but the last downhill, Chapel Hill. In training, I’d wondered whether this steep road would be even runnable at this stage, but it was fine and as I approached the finish at Harvey’s Brewery Yard there was a wonderful purple welcoming committee of cheering marshalls gathered in the road. In my altered state, I forgot to even notice what my time was; later found to be 5.34.
Speaking of marshalls, they were wonderful, cheery and encouraging over the whole course and it was always a huge boost to reach one. Huge thanks to the small group of people organising this challenging and beautiful race. And I might even do it again, but only with much better training!
When I heard about an offroad marathon in my own town, up and down the hills we love to hate, I immediately wanted to do it. Especially as it was being organised in memory of a local runner who sounded like a great chap. I’d run four marathons (two hilly off-road ones) and an ultra, but that was a long time ago and somehow I’d accidentally stopped running for about four years. I had some doubts about whether I could get enough fitness back in time, but decided to go for it.
Given the very small field - only 61 marathon runners - and the fact that only speedy club runners would’ve heard about this as it wasn’t publicly advertised, I suspected I might well be last. Coming out of unintended retirement to do five months training from a standing start, hampered by an immediate calf injury that wasted weeks, was never going to be enough for a course like this. I was familiar with most of the route, and my running partners and I did much of our training on various sections. Based on this, I had hopes of coming in under the sort of unofficial 5.30 cut-off time.
With just over a week to go the weather was looking excellent, but as the day approached the forecast changed until we had 80% chance of heavy rain. I tried to keep the faith that it just might not happen - and amazingly, it didn’t. There was the small matter of an unusual ENE headwind at one of the worst hills but considering how bad things could’ve been, I’m not complaining!
Off we went at 10.00 and right away almost the entire field surged ahead and a small group of us at the back plodded along, up familiar paths to Blackcap and then along the South Downs Way for a few miles heading gently downhill before hitting some wooded hills, crossing over a bridge, and then starting up a long but perfectly runnable climb to Castle Hill and Kingston Ridge.
At the top, I had a nasty shock when the marshalls directed us to the right instead of straight on, and I realised we’d been training on the wrong path all this time! Now we went down, down, down in a most worrying way into a valley I’ve never seen before, before eventually making the inevitable climb back up. Then it was the Yellow Brick Road, which can be punishing on tiring quads but wasn’t too bad, and down a short hill so steep it was hard to walk, let alone run.
As we approached the half-way point, I’m sorry to admit my mind was making unhelpful plans of pulling out. My running partner and I were the last of the marathoners, followed only by two runners doing the half marathon relay. It was rather demoralising to be running along with people who were stopping at 13 miles. And knowing their fresh-legged second-half counterparts would quickly overtake us within minutes. I wished the half could have looped back to town earlier on a different route, or have started earlier, and not involve a relay. I began to feel embarassed at being too slow. The sweeper bikes had been scooting back and forth for miles, collecting up the signs, and it was uncomfortable knowing they had to be there just because of us.
But somehow my legs went on autopilot through the halfway station, and we were on the seriously massive Itford Hill. In training, we’d run most of it but now it was all we could do to walk up the first, steepest bit. I kept expecting the two second-leg half-marathoners to pass us but they never did. (It turns out they’d actually gone on ahead ages ago, which rather defeats the concept of a relay!)
At the steep switchback road descent of Po Beep Bostal, my running partner’s knee gave out and she had to drop to a pace on the old coach road which was too slow for me to run so I would get a bit ahead and then wait. But somehow this was even more painful than stumbling along at my own pace, and I regretfully had to abandon her, though I felt better when I saw her escort of sweeper bikes alongside.
Those last seven miles completely on my own, with only the occasional hint of a red jacket far far ahead, were mentally the toughest. It was an effort not to focus on the pain, to try to think positively instead of repeating ‘never again’ as I was exhausted, legs aching in so many ways, and the temptation to just stop and walk - or lie down in a ditch - was strong. There weren’t as many marshalls along this second half but the purple arrows were clear (except at one point I missed a sign and actually ran into a barn full of cows, which was quite funny!) I was also getting wobbly, feeling dizzy, and more than one marshall asked if I was alright - I could feel myself swaying alarmingly if I stopped for a second to accept a jelly baby or water. The hard-baked rutted track through the ploughed field before Glynde was too rough and uneven to run without risk of falling over. I was glad it was too cold and windy for anyone to be sitting outside as I passed the pub in the village.
The last seriously big hill up Mount Caburn at 24 miles was impossible to run even a little at this point. Walking up was hard enough. And then something happened that has never happened before - at the top of the hill, as I tried to start running again on the flat bit, both calves instantly went into cramp - I’ve never had cramp in any race before. Fortunately it gradually subsided with gentle running, but was always lurking and ready to come back. Finally, there was nothing but the last downhill, Chapel Hill. In training, I’d wondered whether this steep road would be even runnable at this stage, but it was fine and as I approached the finish at Harvey’s Brewery Yard there was a wonderful purple welcoming committee of cheering marshalls gathered in the road. In my altered state, I forgot to even notice what my time was; later found to be 5.34.
Speaking of marshalls, they were wonderful, cheery and encouraging over the whole course and it was always a huge boost to reach one. Huge thanks to the small group of people organising this challenging and beautiful race. And I might even do it again, but only with much better training!
