Is it normal to go back and replay a traumatic experience, just to check if it really is as bad as you thought it was the first time? Jo likened it to childbirth, and why we haven’t extinguished ourselves as a species.
So it was, with me and fell running.
Having attempted my very first race in July, setting off from the Druid Inn in Llanferres, and emerging back to the pub, with the back markers in toe, looking somewhat shellshocked, I had absolutely no desire to do it again. The lung-busting uphill climbs; the heart-stopping precipitous downhills; the treacherous scree and hidden roots and rocks underfoot. Not to mention the very strong possibility that I could have still been wondering around those mountains for hours more, if the sweepers behind me hadn’t kept turning me around and pointing me in the correct direction.
Today’s Cilcain Mountain Race was a similar sort of elevation to the Druid, but instead of the small circle at the top, it just went up. And then down. I didn’t sign up until late afternoon the day before because a) I wanted to make sure I was recovered enough from Saturday’s long run, and b) I wanted to make sure I was of sound mind. I mean, I had hated that Druid race.
I was finally convinced by the mini group of Pensby runners who live near me in Bebington, that it would be a ‘nice day out’ and that there would be cake, and as Alex was driving the four of us over, I felt I should give it a go.
The rain clouds were emptying en route to Wales, but by the time we got parked up in a large field near Cilcain village, it was dry again, if a little autumnal. There was quite a big Pensby turnout and a large number of people generally, and this gave me hope that I wouldn’t be left behind again. Alongside the race, a proper village fair was already in full swing, with a Punch and Judy show (I didn’t notice any physical violence between the married couple, although Punch was having a showdown with a crocodile), some Morris dancers, a dog show, and a brass band by the church. Fortunately, I couldn’t spot any large wicker effigies being prepared for a burning. It all looked rather lovely, and was a great incentive to find my way back off the mountain fairly quickly and in one piece.
Around 1pm, after the juniors had shot off for their races, I sidled to near the back of the seniors pack, so that I didn’t impede the progress of all the mountain goats. The first part was on the small road out of the village, and then we turned fairly quickly, on to the trail. And fairly quickly after that, I started walking, alongside most of the people around me, because the gradient got on the steep side. The shock of the climb and gasping for air that I had had with the Druid race was slightly tempered with this one, because I knew it was coming. The other good thing here was that I wasn’t alone, there were a fair few people around me, and we were all trudging with difficulty, which was very comforting.
There were tiny places, here and there where I did attempt a trot, where the path up was a little less close to vertical than the rest, but, virtually all the second mile, up to the folly crowning Moel Famau, was a walking climb. It’s not technically a folly, but the remains of a tower that was never completed, to celebrate the golden jubilee of George III’s reign in 1810. Whatever it is, it was a joyous sight after all that ascending, to know I’d reach the highest point in the race. And, it was rather nice to see a snake of people still behind me. I absolutely don’t mind being last in a race, but what I was grateful for, in this hill run, was that there were people near me to stop me getting lost.
We didn’t use the same path to go down, and the first little section seemed just about runnable. I communed with my inner Phoebe (from Friends, in case you didn’t know), and flailed my arms, as my feet seemed to fly whilst surprisingly keeping me upright. It was a great feeling, while it lasted. Then that gradient got steeper still and I felt that I’d be dancing with death if I didn’t slow down. The track was muddy and stony for a little while longer but then we were on smoother grass that ran alongside a long stone wall, and I was running again at a nice steady pace, feeling pleased that my legs were bearing up well after the 17 miles I’d done on the road, two days previously. There were two women in front of me in red Prestatyn Running Club t-shirts and I got to chatting with one of them. She told me that she and some of her group were heading out for a 38 miler in a few days’ time themselves, and that included some of these Welsh hills. So that made me feel just a little bit less strong than I thought I was!
But the ladies were lovely, and helpfully knew the route back to the village, which, by now, was well in sight. I dreamed of a pulled pork sandwich as I came down the final road and crossed the finishing line. A very specific dream, but I had spied a tent selling that very thing just before we had set off. I think I was the last of the Pensbys, but by no means the last in the field this time, and the sun had even popped out to show off the purple heather, on the downhill. My physical achievement was very similar to the Druid, but the emotional experience was very, very different. The gradients and the technical terrain weren’t as shocking the second time around. They were still hard but I knew what to expect. But the fact that I didn’t ever feel like I was going to get lost was by far and away the nicest thing about today.
I haven’t experienced adverse weather yet, on a fell run, and I don’t think I’ve actually got kit to handle that anyway – I don’t think my bright pink plastic £10 cagoule will quite cut the mustard. However, at least I know that it is possible to, sort of, enjoy a fell race at all. Which is a good start.
theleadlesspencil 
Terrific.