Three Forts
This post is adapted from an article I wrote for my running club magazine.
In 2015, marathons have been, for me, like buses. I wait for ages for one, then three come along at once.
On April 19th I ran the Greater Manchester Marathon. Two weeks later I ran the Three Forts Challenge Marathon. You might ask why, two weeks after my third ever marathon I would run my fourth. It would be a very good question. The answer lies in the fact I have signed up for the Race to the Stones in July, a two day 100km race along the Ridgeway from Oxfordshire to Avebury. Bryon Powell’s ‘Relentless Forward Progress’, a guide to training for ultra running, had told me I needed to run ‘several’ marathon length trail runs as part of my training plan. Thus followed a mini-frenzy of trail marathon sign-ups, starting with the Three Forts Challenge.
The morning of 3rd May dawned damp and overcast. I drove down to the race HQ in Worthing acutely aware of the 26.2 miles that were in my legs from Manchester just two weeks before, but also aware of the multi-stage-ultra requirement to know how to run on tired legs.
The Three Forts Challenge takes an out and back route along the South Downs Way. ‘Hilly’ does not do it justice. There was more ascent in the first mile than in the entire 26.2 miles of the Manchester Marathon. By the end, there was more than 3000ft of ascent, including a pretty much continuous climb from 16 miles to 21 miles. Any route that includes a summit called the Devil’s Dyke has to be taken seriously.
I did not put myself under undue time pressure, just attempting to finish in under five hours. As I got changed before the race, I saw that the rest of the field had a different composition to many other races I have been in. A slightly older profile, a more grizzled look, and a negligible number of ‘fun-runners’. It began to dawn on me that 27 hilly miles were not designed for ‘fun-running’. But I reminded myself of my months of training, my sub 3.50 Manchester run two weeks before, and convinced myself I could jog round without undue distress. It was somewhat reassuring that many of those I spoke to were running the race for the second or third time. So it couldn’t be that bad! Most of the race photos, when I saw them, portrayed me smiling, so I did manage to stick to my ‘enjoy it, don’t race it’ plan.
The opening mile or so featured a steepish uphill track that would allow only single file running. This happily removed any temptation to over-cook the early pace, as I started towards the back of the field. By the time I reached the first aid station, at about three miles, the rain had eased off sufficiently for me to shed my jacket and slip it into my lovely new Osprey running pack. Backpacks are obligatory for the Race to the Stones, and this was my first good workout for my new pack.
It quickly became clear that although we were running through a glorious landscape, we weren’t going to see much of it. The higher we climbed, the worse the visibility got. At times, it was down to 20 yards or so, and with only a few hundred runners doing the marathon distance, there were times when I was running entirely alone, with just the wind and clouds for company. And with conditions damp under foot, I had to keep my eyes on the ground ahead to avoid tripping, slipping or face-planting.
The race was wonderfully well organised. Well appointed changing rooms at race HQ. Cheap massages and efficient bag storage. There were many aid stations along the route, all staffed by friendly marshals, and all stocked with water, squash, cola and various foodstuffs. Having had my Manchester run almost derailed by dehydration, I made sure to take on both fluid and fuel at every aid station, slowing down to a walk to do so. I was also carrying fluid in my pack, as well as what seemed like a week’s supply of gels. I didn’t mind being overtaken by runners as I ate; I invariably caught them back up, and spent much of the second half of the race moving up the field (Strave Flybys is my latest favourite running tech toy). One person I overtook recognised me from when we had changed next to each other at Manchester two weeks previously. Happily, I beat him for the second time in a fortnight.
At sixteen miles or so, my Garmin was telling me I had completed around 2000ft of ascent, which meant there was another 1000ft or so still to come. Sure enough, there followed five miles of steady climbing. There is something rather cruel about any hill when one has already run 16 miles. By this time, most uphill sections were being treated as run/walk, or just plain walking opportunities. Time could be caught up on remaining downhill sections, as long as one had confidence in one’s footwear.
Finally, with a couple of miles or so to go, a marshal convinced me that it really was all downhill from there. Even with 25 miles and 3000ft of climbs already in my legs, I was able to run at around 8 minute mile pace on the home stretch, crossing the line in 5.01.39, 186th out of 332 finishers. Given that the race distance was actually 27 miles (I have no idea why they make it longer than a regular marathon) this was what I had aimed for, and a good result for my first trail marathon. I felt that I had gone from being a marathon novice to being an ultrarunner in the space of a fortnight. Time will tell whether this is an impression that will last. My third marathon of the year is tomorrow, the Weald Marathon. Bring it on!
