Chasing Snakes on the Mountain Trail
Ambushed by Our Socks
“Come on, Joe. It’ll be great fun”
“Dai*, it’s 43 miles. Me and you are never going to run 43 miles.”
(*“Dai” is the shortened name for “David”, often employed here in Wales).
“Mate, we can do it. Twelve hours. That’s about three and a half miles every hour. I’m telling you we can do that”
“Nah, never. We would die”
“Joe, look, that’s about a mile every 17 minutes. If we run one and walk three, and just repeat that ten times, we will smash it mate.”
“Aye alright then. I’m in.”
And such was the pivotal conversation, in Autumn 2019, which set off the madness, foolishness, effort and ultimately glorious failure of February 2020. Ultra marathon. Brecon to Cardiff. 70 kilometres (or 43 miles in old money). All to be achieved in a maximum permitted time of twelve hours.
“Joe, we will train hard mate. No worries.”
“Dai, we will have to. Really have to”
It started well. Neuadd, Twyn Mwyalchog, Corn Du, Pen y Fan, Cribyn, Neuadd loop. A tough ten-mile hike. Yet it was all downhill from there. That was our single specific training outing. Joe and I were members of a Bootcamp for males aged thirty and over. We would gather every Monday and Wednesday at 7 pm, and every Saturday at 8:30 am, for an hour of high intensity fitness training. We had during 2019 ran several 5k, 10k, and obstacle course races. We were fit and were content to rely upon our thrice-weekly workouts.
One Week Before The Race.
“Don’t worry buddy. It will be fine. I know the route and I’ll make a plan.”
“Dai, I’m never listening to you again. Sometimes I wish I’d never met you, aye.”
“Aww, don’t be like that, Joe. How do you think I feel? I’ve got to live with me every single day.”
He calmed down suitably and together we made a plan.
The first seven miles are from the theatre in Brecon, along the canal path towards Talybont.
“Right Joe, this is what we will do. Section one is flat, right, so we will leg it along the path, get ahead of the schedule and set ourselves up for the day. We start at 8 am and have to pass the seven-mile checkpoint by 10 am. Seven miles. Two hours. No worries.”
Alright buddy, and then what?”
“Section two is going to be rough mate. It’s nine miles and seven of them are uphill. This bit will be brutal. The surface is a bit rough so we will just have to dig in and do our best. We have to get to Ponsticill reservoir by 1 pm. Nine miles in three hours, that is sixteen miles overall.”
“Ok, Dai.”
“Now, if we can get ahead of ourselves in the first section then we buy ourselves some extra time for section two. Section three is six and a half miles in ninety minutes. We will have to pull out fingers out, but it’s all downhill from Ffynnon Dwyn which is about halfway into section three. We can run those last few miles. So, we will go up around the back of Pontsticill Reservoir, along the dam wall, up to the Ffynon Dwyn, take a quick swig from the stream, then we will run down the Taff Trail to Cefn Coed and we will have done twenty thee miles.”
“Halfway, what could possibly go wrong Dai?”
“Nothing buddy. We then get our better halves to meet us at Cefn Coed with our “go faster” running trainers, we dump the walking boots and get into section four which is all downhill from there. I know the route, mate. We will go straight past my house. Claire will have some coffee ready for us but we have to complete seven and a half miles and be at Aberfan Leisure Centre at 4:30 pm.”
“Will she bring out some cake biscuits for us Dai?”
“ Yes, I reckon so, Joe. Look, I’m not one hundred per cent sure of section five mate, but all we have to do is keep running and walking down the trail. Eight miles in two hours and we have to be in Trallwn for 6:30 pm. Then the last section is just a quick blast along the back of the A470 to Nantgarw. Six miles in an hour and a half. Forty-three miles in total”
“Dai, I hate you, aye. I’m never listening to you ever again.”
And so the day draws closer and we laugh nervously at the stupidity of our unpreparedness. We collect our race numbers the day before (Joe gets 747 — a great sign of impending speediness), and that evening we pack our bags. The compulsory kit list is extensive — thermals, gloves, hat, first aid kit, headtorch, food, water, compass, map, kitchen sink. And, wow, have we covered every base. My rucksack is bulging and I look like I’m going for a month.
Day of the race
7:15 am. Joe and I meet at Christ College, Brecon for kit inspection, final “sign-in” formalities and a pre-race briefing. Immediately we realise that we have this all wrong. There are three hundred competitors, two-hundred and ninety-eight of whom are lean, mean racing snakes; then there’s me and Joe like a pair of slugs.
Each and every racing snake, to a person, has the minimal kit, stuffed into a bumbag or a tiny backpack. Meanwhile, my first aid kit alone is bigger than the bags that most of these folk are running with. Every single one of them is wearing trail trainers. Joe and I are wearing boots of the sort that would comfortably house the old woman who had so many kids she didn’t know what to do.
No one says anything to us. No one laughs. There is no need. It is the “Awwww, bless them” looks of sympathy which unsettle me.
“Now look Joe, we will be fine, buddy. We’ve planned the walk, now let’s just walk the plan. “
“I hate you Dai.”
“I know, Joe, but let’s get on with it.”
8 am. The temperature hovers around -3c. The event is running fifteen minutes late, as the starter’s hooter has frozen solid. Finally, after some quick defrosting, he signals it is time to start. There is a loud bang, much cheering and away we go. I hope they take account of those fifteen minutes. We’re going to need them.
We do well and manage to keep up with the racing snakes for about three hundred yards. They are jogging, we are sprinting. We run our first mile and then break into a serious walk. Doing well here. Yet there are still folk behind us. We console ourselves with talk of the hare and the tortoise, a conversation which we return to with nauseating regularity.
We reach the first checkpoint at 9:50 am, ten minutes inside the set time, which with the additional fifteen minutes from the late start means we are smashing it. Keep this up and we will be home in time for dinner. Yet there’s a problem. The canal section is very mucky, and as two hundred and ninety racing snakes have churned up the route, we find ourselves ankle deep in muck.
Socks are wet and blisters starting to form on our feet. Miraculously I found a pot of unopened Vaseline, obviously discarded by an over-confident racing snake. I open it and lather my feet with Vaseline, put my boots back on and we set off onto section two.
10 am. Section two is even more severe than I had anticipated. The wind is howling through the trees, it is bitterly cold, and the falling snow is cutting visibility down to around fifty metres. The blisters are agonising for both of us and Joe is starting to have trouble with his heel. Yet he has a secret stash of co-codamol in his bag for such emergencies. We tuck into a couple of them each, with a swig of water and an energy gel and press on.
And on.
And on.
And on.
And on.
It is relentless but our co-codamol induced pain reduced utopia helps to heave us up the seven miles of uphill struggle. Finally, we reach the summit of the climb and now face two miles of relatively flat terrain to reach checkpoint two.
We make it with twenty minutes to spare, check-in, guzzle some coca-cola, jelly babies and cake that is kindly provided for us. Apparently, half a dozen people have already been taken off the race, with one suffering mild hypothermia. Haha, we aren’t going to be last today. There are half a dozen more folk, more hopeless than us two.
And with that encouraging thought, we set off onto section three. Sixteen miles complete and just the small matter of twenty-seven to go.
1pm. Section three commences with a steep uphill slog before disappearing around the back of the Ponsticill reservoir. We keep good time but both realise that this is going to be tight. As we arrive at the Ffynon Dwyn, the halfway point of section three, we have two and a half miles to cover in just thirty minutes. We want to run, but can not. It is not an issue of fitness or energy levels. It is our feet. Specifically, the blistered feet that are refusing to take any more of a battering.
“Joe, if we can just get to the checkpoint and put our trainers on, we may be ok.”
“Dai, I ain’t taking these boots off. If I do then I don’t think I will be walking any further.”
In the event, our deliberations are all academic as we fail by ten minutes to reach the checkpoint.
“We really should retire you chaps as you have failed to make the cut. You can keep going if you want, but the finishing line will likely be packed up by the time you get there.”
There is no point. Even though we have conquered the hardest section of the route, we are slowing up and are only just over halfway. We decide, reluctantly, to call it off. I am very irritated with myself. Of all the possible issues that could go wrong for us, I had not entertained the notion that blisters would be our downfall.
We dragged ourselves twenty-three miles in just under five hours, whilst dressed in and carrying inappropriate kit. We trekked over rough terrain, in appallingly cold weather conditions. We had just another twenty to go.
The following day both Joe and I missed our Bootcamp session. I sent him a text:
“Joe, I have just seen an exciting sponsored event. Land’s End to John O’ Groats. Eight hundred and fifty miles. You in, buddy?”
