The race began fast and flat, packed stone pushing back against hundreds of feet. My effort here was moderate, no point in pushing too hard now when over 300m of climbing lay ahead. Out of the darkness a cattlegrid materialised with a silvery glint from my headtorch. The behaviour of runners ahead gave no indication of this obstacle and I slid, barely kept upright on the slick metal. I recovered quickly and fell back into the rhythm I had nursed from the start. The path undulated, and with each loss of elevation the subsequent climb became steeper and steeper. A fast queue formed along a thin, muddy strip descending through a sheep field. Our runner mentality mirrored that of the field’s ovine inhabitants. A tumble, slide, and recovery occurred before me in the span of a few strides.
The race then began in earnest. Up and up it climbed towards Stanage Edge. Not wanting to overexert myself and blow up before I hit the halfway mark, I used a singletrack section for pacing. The wet leaves provided either little purchase on the wet rock or a mask for deep pockets of mud. It opened out onto another rocky track and field, and I used this as an opportunity to move up a few places as those in front slowed to a walk.
I thanked the marshals ensuring we didn’t get run down crossing the road, and continued grinding my way up into Stanage Plantation, gaining a couple more places. I felt good. Indestructible. Will. I heard my name. Connor was on my heels but assured me he wouldn’t be overtaking. Never were words spoken more untrue. In what can only be described as a vulgar display of power he ran, no bounded, up the irregular grit steps to disappear in the mist on Stanage Edge. Bastard.
I kept moving, holding an effort that skirted the anaerobic, teasing the lactic but not allowing it to take form. I paced the tops beautifully if I say so myself. Headtorch in hand to improve visibility I hopped between rock and puddle, leaving my pack behind and chasing down the next. I enjoyed this period of isolation trapped in a floating bubble of white periodically interrupted by flashing red lights to prevent runners tumbling off the edge.
I tumbled off the edge. On the path but my descending style was irregular and jarring. My circling dance with lactic paid off and I caught up to the next group, making easy work of overtaking those less comfortable of the idea of rolling the descending dice. Two of these places were promptly lost again when I realised these runners weren’t slower on sweet smooth tarmac and gentle climbs. Not to repeat the narrative and bore you, but within the bracken where the ground once more fell away, I was at their heels again.
I descended with wild abandon through the final field, making up one more position by taking a wide line. I felt amazing. Then I saw the marshal. And the wall. With only a few steps to formulate a plan to prevent all 92kg of myself putting a hole straight through them both I threw my left leg up and into a grassy knoll, diverting sharply left, and then right, slipping through the gate and into the final road section.
One more place I thought. A headtorch bobbed down and around a corner. You’re mine. I sped up. Faster and faster, slowly closing the gap until we were shoulder to shoulder. His breath was laboured, mine surprisingly easy. Faster still, accelerating beyond what I thought I could do. It almost was. Across the line my legs couldn’t keep up and I tilted forwarded. This is going to hurt a lot. I was saved by an inclined drive where I could get my feet back under me. What a race.
I started with little expectations. I hadn’t been training at all and my fitness, and weight, had suffered. Yet I managed a strong, sustained effort, finishing in 29th and about a minute behind Connor.