A coastal race in Cornwall in January — close to 165km and 4,500m (don’t believe UTMB, you’ll be annoyed when you’re not at the end at 160km).
We were nestled perfectly between two named storms — one had already churned the place into a mud pit, the next one waiting in the wings to hurl us into the sea. I don’t swim, by the way.
The Road to the Start Line
Back in June, a fresh-faced NBLR-to-be, I was hobbling around Pembrokeshire with a freshly pinned hip and a vague hope of starting this race. So to find myself on the start line, actually wanting to run through the night, felt like a win already.
This race is aptly named for its attritional rate — 50% don’t finish. But those folks clearly haven’t been on a Wednesday night NBLR winter sufferfest.
I’d trained hard, mostly sliding about doing repeats between Amroth and Pendine on the Welsh Coast Path — the “field of dreams,” assuming your dreams involve wet coastal running and questioning life decisions.
A Fast Start (Too Fast…)
It kicked off fast. By “it” I mean I kicked it off fast — a bit like I was running a parkrun and the winner got free pizza. The first 20km is technical, but I was buzzing to be near the front. Naturally, I paid for it.
Eventually, I settled into a group of four and hit the first crew point — aka espresso station number one. Double shot, obviously.
Things got damp, dark, and daft from here. Cramp crept in — partly because I ran too fast, partly because my hip still has hardware in it.
Into the Weather
By Penzance, I’d shaken the cramps and found the three runners ahead of me tucking into snacks.
I nicked a bite, legged it before they noticed.
Fergy (RD) appeared to warn us of incoming weather. I didn’t put my jacket on. I should have!
Lewis Ryan and I slipped away from the others in the bad weather and were now up front, sloshing through the soggy miles. My shoes surrendered somewhere near Land’s End.
Land’s End and Beyond
Cue big aid station stop at Land’s End — shoe change, caffeine, and food. A quick chase after Lewis ensued after he got out of there first. Bad idea. Stubbed a rock. Quad exploded. Brief meltdown. Considered stopping. Didn’t.
Then came the nastiest bit of the course — 25km of Mordor between Botallick and St Ives.
Honestly, I think Tim Plumb designed that section just to see if people would cry. I nearly did.
I kept glancing back, convinced I’d be overtaken.
Every puddle became a shortcut.
Every noise was someone coming from behind to pass me out.
I was running scared.
The Final Push
From St Ives, the path eases off. The infamous Dunes of Doom and The Bitches hills came and went — sounding scarier than they were. Soon after, I saw the last marshal who greeted me with the best thing I’d heard in a day:
“Congrats Dave, you are now off the coast path, turn right, follow the road.”
I still thought I was going to be caught! So the last kicker to the line was one last kicking for me.
2nd place!
It was more than I had ever hoped I would get out of it.
