Subtitle: Gullible and Undertrained
As I lay soaking in a tub of bath salts, a sudden realization hit me: at least one thing had gone right today. I obviously hadn’t chafed too badly, because sitting down in the salted water didn’t send me screaming into the ceiling. Not that my legs could have managed a jump anyway after what I’ve just put them through.
On paper, this race should have been perfect. It is a mere 20 minutes from home. It delivers breakfast, an all-day buffet on the course, and a proper hot dinner at the finish, okay you don’t get a medal, but you do get a sew on patch and a great event all for a great price. For an aspiring 100 Marathon Club wannabir what more could you possibly want? It sounded so good that the moment we knew this event was back… we signed up – even if I had to miss a parkrun.
What I conveniently forgot during the sign-up process was my complete lack of training. In fact, these last two weeks marked a total of six runs—one of which was today’s 26.9-mile trail marathon.
As a qualified run coach, if any of my athletes came to me with this preparation strategy, I would seriously question their sanity. Mary, however, gave up on my sanity years ago and simply accepts that I am completely bonkers. She, on the other hand, quietly and stoically completed her 85th marathon today—a magnificent milestone—all while acting as my patient carer.
Packing Masterclass & The Dawn Mist
The day started chilly. I stood in the kitchen umming and ahhing about whether to wear gloves, consulting my meticulously crafted kit list. Yes, you read that correctly: I have a checklist. Deciding that AI actually has a useful purpose, I’d asked it to generate the ultimate trail marathon kit list, and it produced absolute perfection. I had almost everything I needed—or rather, I would have had everything, had I actually followed the checklist to the letter and packed the items into my car instead of leaving them scattered around the house.
My sunglasses, for instance, spent the entire day lounging on the sofa. I didn’t think I’d need them at dawn, as mist lay thick over the hills and sheep peered out from the fog like fluffy white clouds. But sure enough, the fog cleared, the sun blazed, and I was left squinting. I regretted missing out on my sunglasses; they make me look cooler! And let’s be honest: looking good for the race photos is very important.
Determined to give my under-prepared legs every available second, we arrived early to take advantage of the generous 11-hour time limit. The kids were off parkrunning in Manchester on their own, (I know we look youthful but our babies have been somewhat over 11 for a while, so no need to keep them in arms reach, infact they drove themselves to Manchesters) so we had no reason to rush back. Joining the walkers, we figured we had a comfortable two hours to cover the seven-and-a-bit miles to the first checkpoint, allowing my morning coffee and breakfast to digest peacefully before we even debated running.
“Be Prepared”… for Bovine Warfare
As we marched through the countryside, I felt a surge of smug confidence regarding my preparation. I actually started singing Be Prepared by Scar from The Lion King at the top of my lungs.
Mary looked around the open countryside and asked, “Well, what should you be prepared for now?”
“Oh, you know,” I replied cheerfully, inspecting the grass. “Sheep, horses, maybe cows.”
At that exact microsecond, my foot plunged straight into a massive, steaming-fresh cow pat. As the warm moisture oozed over and into my running shoe, two terrifying realizations hit me simultaneously:
- The culprits were either very close, and currently watching me.
- I was about to face my ultimate phobia.
Now, I have watched countless episodes of Nate the Hoof Guy on YouTube, so I consider myself somewhat educated in cow feet. But despite my armchair expertise, living, breathing cows terrify me.
I proceeded with utter trepidation. I didn’t even need to see them to know we were in danger—I could hear them. I heard the aggressive snorting from their nostrils and felt the ground shudder as a herd of deadly, bloodthirsty bovine beasts hurtled straight across the field towards us.
At the very last second, they swerved away, circled back, and launched a second charge. Then a third. And a fourth.
Mary, acting as the voice of reason, calmly pointed out, “They’re just scared because all these runners are invading their territory.”
“They’re out for blood!” I gasped, genuinely convinced my 100 Marathon Club journey was ending right here as cattle fodder.
In a desperate bid for mercy, I actually yelled at the herd, “I’m a vegetarian! Don’t eat me!”
To which Mary helpfully added, “Well, you still drink milk, so they’re probably not happy about that!”
Exactly not what a terrified man wants to hear while being hunted by livestock.
Eventually, after pleading my dairy innocence, we reached the far corner of the field, slipped through the gate, and escaped the stampede.
My heart slowly returned from my throat to my chest, and I trudged onward toward the safety of the next checkpoint.
Secret Codes, Hidden Forests, and Excessive Snacking
Navigationally, I was armed with the GPX route on my Garmin and five pages of written instructions safely clutched in my hand. I love LDWA instructions. They read like a secret military cypher: TL, TR, LMG, SWG, X-RD, SLoT, PROW. It gives you a sense of true adventure, and also you know that even if technology dies, the code will guide you safely home.
Doing these events in the past without a GPX file always brings back fond memories of running this event with the legendary Dave Phillips. One year we managed to overtake each other multiple times simply by taking turns getting lost, culminating in Dave climbing over a live railway line to get back on track.
Fortunately, my navigational duties today went brilliantly. We only went off-course once, and that was by a mere five meters. In my defense, the instruction writer’s definition of “10 meters” was mathematically flawed—it was definitely only five!
The terrain, however, was testing. Due to dry weather, deep cracks and tractor ruts were baked rock-hard into the soil. The true magic of this route is that parts of it cross private land opened up specifically for this race. We got to see hidden, tranquil corners of the Heart of England Forest normally closed to the general public. As we walked through the woods, I scanned the saplings hoping to spot the tree I’d paid for with my 2017 race entry. Furthermore, this year’s event raised £1,000 to plant even more trees in the National Forest—a truly fantastic cause.
If the trails don’t break you, the aid stations certainly will—by making you never want to leave. The Heart of England LDWA branch puts on a spread that puts an afternoon tea in a posh hotel to shame. At Checkpoint 1, I enjoyed a: buttered soren cake, a few biscuits, and some vegan sweets. I bypassed the porridge, Greek yogurt, compotted fruit and toast only because I’d eaten porridge at 6:00 AM, but a few extra sweet treats were mandatory.
Off we walked out of the aid station—me clutching a smallish slice of cake and a few emergency biscuits with my mug of coffee—soaking in the glorious, untouched Warwickshire countryside. If you stay quiet (an absolute rarity for me), there’s no sound of road traffic or planes overhead—just birds tweeting and the gentle baa of lambs.
“Let’s just walk the whole lot,” Mary said gently as we strolled. “We don’t need to rush.”
What a marvelous idea, I thought. We were in total agreement. Or so I foolishly believed…
The Betrayal and the Foghorn
We arrived at Checkpoint 2, where I proceeded to devour—and I do not use that word lightly—samosas, hummus and cucumber sandwiches, and a cheese sandwich. I skipped the ham (being vegetarian), but treated myself to a little desert… a slice of cake, watermelon, and a handful of sweets. I contemplated the rice pudding, but decided carrying a pot while walking was a logistics nightmare. My pack was already weighed down with “just in case” emergency supplies.
For the trail, I grabbed an extra sandwich and a few lemon custard creams. (Don’t knock a lemon custard cream until you’ve tried one; they are sublime.)
We walked onward into a flatter, smoother section of forest. The ruts vanished. And that is precisely when Mary—that absolute snake—turned to me and said, “Oh, maybe we should run a bit now.”
Wait, what?! What happened to “walking the whole lot”?
Under severe duress, I broke into a jog.
Almost immediately, the mountain of samosas, sandwiches, and biscuits sitting heavy in my stomach began to gurgle. Gas built up at an alarming rate, giving me instant, severe indigestion. My short-lived burst of speed was rapidly halted as gas began exploding out of my mouth like a foghorn, single-handedly shattering the idyllic peace and quiet of nature.
Thankfully, we were alone on the trails, but the sound echoed over the Warwickshire countryside and was probably heard as a rumble of thunder in Coventry!
To my relief the ground turned rutted again shortly after. Mary, realizing that running was either going to cause her to trip or cause me to explode, sensibly called a halt to the running. Getting around safely and being intact for her upcoming Beachy Head Marathon was far more important. We dropped back to a march, surrounded once again by sweet, undisturbed birdsong.
The Break-Down and the Finish Feast
Onward we pushed to the final checkpoint: the glorious sight of a caravan perched at the top of a hill. While boiling a kettle in a caravan for a hundred hungry walkers is an impossible ask (meaning no hot tea), they had added to their drink stash… with coke and ginger beer. Tempted, I downed a ginger beer from my reusable cup. It was perhaps not the wisest choice for reducing upper-gastrointestinal pressure, but as I always say: better out than in, and certainly better up than down. And for a mile or two the results could be heard!
With a couple of miles to go, my complete lack of training finally levied its brutal tax. My body launched a full-scale mutiny. I wasn’t sure which part was screaming loudest: my left buttock, my right hip flexor, my burning calves, or my knees, which—after years of quietly doing their job—suddenly decided to protest. Even my toes felt like they’d been stepped on by a small herd of rhinoceroses.
Climbing over the stiles became a herculean feat. I could lift my leg up, but getting it high enough to clear the top wooden bar required immense huffing, puffing, and dramatic blowing.
We reached mile 24.6 on the instruction but my watch was already showing 26miles completed. It claimed we still had 2.1 miles to go. Looking down at my shattered legs, I turned to Mary in absolute despair.
“When we make it to the road,” I wheezed, “just leave me there. Finish, walk to the hall, get the car, and come collect my corpse. I cannot do another two miles.”
Thankfully, the instruction sheet had a typo. It wasn’t 2.1 miles at all; it was less than a mile.
Before I knew it, we stumbled back into the Memorial Hall to collect our finisher patches and sit down to a phenomenal post-race feast: piping hot jacket potatoes with a choice of fillings, sticky toffee pudding, ice cream, custard, apple crumble, and endless hot cups of tea.
The Verdict
It was a glorious day out. Mary logged marathon #85 on her march to the 100 Club, and I survived to tell the tale.
If you have never entered a Heart of England LDWA event, you are missing out on one of the greatest hidden gems in running. The organization is flawless, the route is stunning, the marshals are the friendliest people on earth, and the food spread alone is worth the entry fee. Mary and I will most definitely have it on our calendar for future years.
Though if you do decide to sign up… I’d strongly advise doing slightly more training than I did!
P.S. If I am not at Track Tuesday or Thrilling Thursday Training I am probably stuck in the bath still unable to get out!