With a blood blister the size of Gwynedd on my second toe and a knee joint that needs some serious oiling, its safe to say, the Snowdonia Marathon never fails to impress.
Once again I found myself huddling against anything that offered even a minuscule of protection whilst waiting for the start line to fill. I went through a number of options, curling behind a very small rock – tedious and slightly painful, standing very straight behind a tree – comical and rubbish, then finally, huddling against a rock face with a two inch overhang for protection. I convinced myself the overhang was working until I noticed that all the water flowing off the top of the rock face, combined with the water hitting the rock face, was channeling straight down the rock face directly into my open backpack. Well at least I now know my pack is fully waterproof and given another few minutes I could have tested its 15 litre capacity.
The Snowdonian start line is certainly no advert for Nivea. A motley crew of shivering faces, wet beards, widened eyes and smiles to match. A quick intro from the organisers and you’re off. Up The Pass.
I have two main memories from this years race aside from the sharp weather wallop and the leg tearing as/descents. The first was the support of all the runners, drink station volunteers, marshals and cheerers. Outstanding. I cant decide whether extreme conditions brings out the best or whether the best turn up for the extreme. At mile 17 I joined a pack of 5 runners. 5, very large 6ft+ runners, built, some would say, like brick shit houses. A perfect 7:40 pace, joking, chatting, system checking, pacing, eating and drinking in unity. I entered their pace quickly, getting swept into the squad. The pace stayed perfect and the unit supported. The moment that really stood out to me, and a moment that sums up this marathon in one fell swoop, was when the fifth runner next to me stopped to adjust the wind torn number on his chest. We continued a good 200 yards until the front of the pack noticed. Immediately the strongest runner increased pace and peeled off. He then ran back to the fifth runner and helped with the number. Chatting all the way and increasing tempo they were back with us in no time and resumed position. The squad was back to full force and they continued their journey, no questions asked.
My piggyback on the edge of the squad abruptly ended at mile 21 as they continued their pace up the ever increasing climb and the terrain simply gave me a swift one between the legs. There on in became absolute carnage. Grown men wincing, bolts of cramp hitting hamstrings on either side of me. At one point it felt like being on a battlefield and I wished I was back with the squad. Tears running down the cheeks of wry veterans and young marathon whippets alike. Tyson-esque weather punches adding insult to injury left, right and centre. Downhill became the new uphill. Pain. Then the magic 24 mile marker. Joy.
The second memory is from earlier in the race. I have no idea what mile, where or when, but the image is engrained on my brain forever. I’ve had to think it over and make sure that I wasn’t hallucinating because as I turned a corner with a group of other runners a wonderful, strange and momentarily confusing sight confronted us all. In a small lay-by to the edge of the road, two figures dressed from head to toe in full nylon / spandex suits that completely covered their bodies including their faces, one bright red, one bright blue, stood, at the edge of the road, happily waving at all the runners passing by. Full spandex suits. Head, neck, arms, fingers, legs, feet. And next to them? A tandem bike propped against the fence of course.
Yes.
So then somehow you’ve got round. Into the village and over the finish. Tears, hugs, cramps. A runner violently hanging onto the person designated to hand out the slate coasters with leg ripping pain. Not only has this man been standing in the freezing rain for hours, he now has a crazed runner hanging onto his jacket, wild eyed and screaming. Poor chap. I grab my coaster and head for the tea urn.
Get wrapped up in foil, sip your tea and your on your way. On your way to the hotel bar where the next few hours are spent watching people slowly hobble, limp, and hop to the taps. Experiences are shared, stories of a women with cramp in both legs screaming wildly on the side of the mountains slowly ripples through the bar and empty Guinness glasses fill the tables. What more could you ask for?
Snowdonia Marathon 2009 is being discussed in the Runner’s World forum under the post ‘Camaraderie Rules!’ currently standing at 3936 messages.
