Photograph: JMT, 'Clogwyn, Snowdon Mountain Path'.Crouching behind a small tree inside a black bin bag in the vain attempt to dilute gale-force slapping horizontal rain, bringing my bones back from a deafening brattle down to a mere chitchat, was, to say the least, an interesting introduction to marathon running.
Wide-eyed and full of rolled oats I jumped on the first bus up to the start. Having introduced myself briefly to the person sat next to me the bus stopped on the edge of the road, at the base of the Llanberis Pass to a uniformed ‘Is this it?’ This seemingly ungrateful cry was from the right side of the bus who could all see down a gravel track to the start of the race. Five Portaloos, each of which had 2 or 3 people inside hiding from the Parody of Welsh Elements, a few people dotted around, behind rocks, trees and shrubs, and one lone, slightly deranged (perhaps inebriated) elderly fellow in skimpy fluorescent shorts and running vest seemingly unaffected by the Snowdonian onslaught…Perfect.
The start to the race seemed strangely fitting for an event rated as one of the hardest marathons in Europe. It was unassuming, filled with running folk that stood shoulder to shoulder waiting for steep climbs and demanding descents. No fanfare. No nonsense. Just run.
And so we ran. My memories of the event are blurred. I forgot my gels and had to get over it quickly, I was both shocked and wired on going a long way up, and then down, then up again, then down, then flat, then up, oh and then up again, some more up, lots of down…There were of course the saviors at each feeding station with buckets of jelly beans, juice and isotonic drinks, also seemingly unaffected by the conditions. I have all of these people to thank, as I wouldn’t have made the run without them. There were runners I talked to on grueling inclines, slips and a tumble on a decline, a toilet break on a small stone bridge that shot up in all directions as wind managed to cause comic chaos. Droplets of urine exploded in every direction and hit a couple of passers. My sincerest apologies if you’re reading and if it’s any consolation I inhaled a whole load of it.
I think anyone who ran will remember the last 6 miles with both utter contempt and conquering pride. At the point when you think there can’t possibly be anything else, Bwlch-y-Groes clouts you in the face. Well, hamstrings, calves, knees, back, stomach, arms, shoulders, neck, brain, eyelids, fingers. A tear-jerking climb onto a kamikaze descent. A fitting end.
And then the finish, much like the start. A tap on the back, a cup of tea, collect your coaster and on your way.
There isn’t much else needed when surrounded by a community of people that are humbled by their individual bouts with the mountains and elements, all warming numb fingers on paper cups, and bodies pink as lobsters from stinging rain. Towel the head, jumper on, sink a pint, job done.
'Rain, wind, and glorious Snowdonia, what more could you want.' Kev Joyce
Finishing Time 3:33:07
