We’re back baby! One year in the making, and with half the time injured as the previous year it’s a miracle I’m not pro yet! Hell on the Humber holds a special place in my heart given its an event I can share with my dad. Having run the 6- and 12-hour events more times in the past than me, he’s met a lot of people and bumping into old friends is no surprise. Now he no longer runs he is the support team of dreams: supportive, quick, funny.
Having somehow won it last year, I returned to defend my title on legs that had barely seen the road since the Ambleside 50k. A win this year didn’t seem too likely. If you read my account of the Ambleside 50k you’ll know that I was injured and was just glad to finish that race. Because of this my training has been neither regular nor fruitful, more sporadic and unproductive. I have done some longer runs recently, recceing various routes and working on my navigation skills, but these have been super chill, almost walks as I try to find the best routes and just enjoy days out in the peak.
During the pre-race brief I had nerves. Big nerves. Stood dead centre, Karl always delivered a humorous, if long, rule round up. Don’t pee in the bushes (there’s cameras), don’t pee on the path (there’s cameras), don’t pee off the bridge (there’s cameras – though I imagine the feeling of finishing a wee before it hits the Humber holds some weird prestige). Dad circled around snapping pictures. As I said, best support crew.
This year, instead of offering support via hourly text messages Fiona decided to bite the bullet and run it too. She kept it very quiet until the day with my dad only finding out he was crewing for two when we were about to set off from his house. His face melded from true astonishment to sly grin as he processed what had been said, knowing what lay ahead for her. If anything, Fi’s run was more impressive than any attempt I’ve made, given her longest run to date was 12km, jumping straight to 38km was a big surprise.
On the start line I got speaking to a runner who had come second last year, Rachael. I recognised her as she usually does the first couple laps in costume before removing any adornments and getting on with the serious running. We spoke about what runs we’d done over the past year, with her list being more impressive than mine. She’d done a couple ultras and a track 12 hour run in hopes in getting a qualifying distance for entry into the Spartathlon, a 246 kilometre (153 mile) run across Greece. This follows the footsteps of Pheidippides, an ancient Athenian runner of legend who ran to Sparta to seek aid in the Greek Persian War in 490BC.
I am writing this up a couple of weeks after the fact, so my memories of each lap have blended into one bridge bound mess. What I can say is I still haven’t learned. I got caught up in the hubbub and ran the first few laps at a good 30 seconds per kilometre faster than my target. During this time, I was fully aware I was slapping tarmac like a rabid dog, but I somehow rationalised this to myself as follows: I can just run 30 seconds slower than target pace per kilometre for the same number of kilometres at the end of the run. I will reiterate, I am not a smart runner. I am a stupid runner who doesn’t learn. Maybe that’s not quite accurate. I do learn, I just don’t apply the new knowledge because for some unknown reason I’m as stubborn as a mule.
As the kilometres disappeared under my feet, I noticed the leader continue to slowly pull away each lap, his pace seemingly not changing. This ease of running is something I aspire to; it was awesome to see. We would exchange a quick hello or words of encouragement each passing, as did most people I passed. This is what makes the repeated back and forth across the bridge more tolerable, no matter what place you are you are always passing by someone. Another notable runner was the second placer. He did the first 7 or so laps with I assume partner and then picked up the pace. I could feel him hounding down on me as I finished my 9th lap and went out for the 10th. Looking back to the sound of footsteps I could see him advancing, taking down a 2 or so mile lead I had built with seeming ease. He even managed to steam passed me again when I realised I wasn’t going to finish the lap and prematurely turned round to get back in for the official race end. Some more unreal running.
I will say this about Hell on the Humber, the end of the race is atmosphere-less if you run for full duration. There is no incentive for people to stick around to watch those who decide to run the full time so by the time five hours rolls round (the minimum time to run before you are classed as a finisher), the support crews rapidly dwindle as people go home. This meant that once again I finished the run to a half-dismantled race HQ. I remember in 2018 there was a raffle of some kind at the end of the race where there was the chance to get something just for running, and the number of people who stuck around was large. They still run a raffle, but this is drawn in the weeks following. Perhaps I’ll suggest they create some form of incentive to stick about, as it is the one thing that prevents this good event being great.
Stats
Elapsed time: 06:00:00
Moving time: 06:00:00
Distance: 63.13km
Elevation: 541m
Average Pace: 5:42/km
Average Speed: 10.53kmph
Calories: 5370
Average HR: 160bpm