Louis goes to hell and back...
MST has another new writer. Louis Clark will be ‘our man in the South’ – of England that is – covering all things trail and XC. Louis lives in the city, he lives for the weekend and getting our of urbania.
Last weekend he embarked on the off-road mayhem that is.. Hellrunner
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7am, Hackney. My alarm sounds. I’m already awake though, and have been for about an hour. You see, it’s tough to sleep the night before you attempt to run Hellrunner for the first time. All I know is what I’ve read on the website. They say there will be everything from tracks and trails to water-filled areas and plenty of steep hills. Apparently I shouldn’t expect to see mile markers as they are for those softy road running types. All I need to know is that it will be probably more than 10 and less than 12 miles in length and tougher than anything I’ve done before.
Into the car and I head South West. Sunday morning is as empty as the roads ever get in London and I’m the only vehicle on Tower Bridge. Soon the buildings give way to trees as I head out past Richmond Park, then onto the A3, past Guildford and the Devil’s Punch Bowl, a deep tree-lined crater carved out years ago by some natural force – a portent of things to come perhaps.
Then there it is, the Longmoor Military Training Camp. A queue of cars crawl slowly down the slip road as they funnel from the three-lane highway to a single dirt track that winds its way deep into the forest. After a mile or so the forest opens out onto a grassy field, normally used as an airfield but today packed with cars. The place is heaving with runners and spectators. I’ve arrived. This is Hellrunner.
I don’t know what to expect. Living in East London, opportunities for racing off the road have been limited to the odd trail marathon. As for training, I find mud and hills where I can – Epping Forest, the canal paths, the city parks – anything that isn’t a pavement really. I’m keen to see what’s what so I leave the car and jog up a slope to what I think is the run route. I crest the hill and there it is, a ditch about 5 metres wide and 60 metres long filled with murky brown water. A luminous yellow banner frames the way in. “Welcome to the Bog of Doom”.
The water is still. Two inflatable crocodiles float at one end, barely causing a ripple. Runners walk past on there way to the start area, everyone slows to take a look. A child throws a stick which breaks the stillness of the bog before sinking without a trace. Moments later the stench of stagnant water fills the air. I realise now that there is nothing in Epping Forest that could have prepared me for this.
The start is full of people. Three thousand someone says. I spy Gordon Ramsey signing things to one side. I’m not sure how near the front to be, so I settle for about two hundred back. Five minutes to go, there’s something walking down the course towards us. It’s an eight foot tall Devil. And why not, it is supposed to be Hell after all.
He stands in front of us, air guitaring to Guns N Roses. The announcer counts down. 10 seconds. The Devil moves to one side. Five Seconds. Someone on a quad bike at the head of the race lights a flare. We’re off. The first 500 metres are a blur of red smoke and I’m trying not to trip or be tripped. Then we’re out onto a gravel road, downhill, but only slightly.
I go easy, with no idea where I am in the field. Half a mile in and we turn off onto some grass, then up the first hill. Its steep and muddy, but certainly doable. Some people around me are breathing hard but I feel ok. Push on, I tell myself, overtake where you can. Avoid the puddles, keep the shiny new Roclite 320’s as dry as you can for as long as you can. Down hill next, short but steep. I try to keep my form, no wind milling arms, take it steady.
Then the first proper uphill stretch. Again not that long, perhaps two hundred metres in total, but its steep, I could reach out and touch the ground in front of me without bending down. The ground is thick, wet clay. Someone to the left of me falls over, he’s wearing road shoes. It’ll be a long day for him, I think.
This carries on for a couple of miles, up then down. Grass, clay, mud, water, rocks. Some unavoidable puddles mean I can’t feel my feet any more. Can’t decide if that’s good or bad. We cross a gravel road, I try and leap the ditch on the far side and come down heavy on the uphill bit. I can feel a dull ache in my Achilles, but then I’m wading through a knee deep icy puddle which does a good job of numbing it, I’ll think about it later.
I top yet another hill, I’m running next to a lady in a club vest. I can’t see which club, she’s too muddy. She’s running well, economically, like she’s done this sort of thing before. A water station up ahead. Are we half way? If so I feel ok, its tough but I’m still moving through the field. There’s some time on a gravel track after the water station, downhill and perfect for getting some fluids on board. At the bottom the course turns and I see another hill and its steeper and longer than anything we’ve done yet. It doesn’t slow me to a walk but at the top my legs are burning and I’m breathing hard. It has taken me out of my comfort zone.
The next few miles are more of the same. Up and down, each steeper and muddier than the last, with no respite. I’m still passing people but not as quickly. I’m not avoiding puddles any more, just crashing through them. On the down hill bits I’m not quite in control, they’re muddy, littered with rocks and not long enough for me to recover for the next climb.
I round a corner and see the course go up the side of what looks like a gravel pit and with it the first sign of people walking. I get as far up as I can, then its hands on knees, on the toes, but walking all the same. Straight back down the other side and on to the first period of flat in while. We’re winding through the trees, and in the distance I begin to make out the unmistakeable sound of cheering. It must be the Bog of Doom, but not before another climb. Two hundred metres of mud, rock and water.
The Bogs of Doom
I get a glimpse of the first lady up ahead, in a white Orion Running Club vest, I must be catching her, but slowly. Down the other side of the climb and there it is – the Bog of Doom – with its steep banks packed with cheering spectators. I speed up as best I can and launch a running bomb into the rank mud. It certainly gets a cheer but I’m not sure its worth it.
It’s the kind of cold that takes your breath away, and it stinks. I find my feet in the thick silt at the bottom and forge ahead. I’m stopped in my tracks by what feels like a log. At least I hope it’s a log, and not a fellow runner. I stumble, another cheer goes up. This continues for the entire length. About half way I look up and see my family. They’ve certainly picked the best place to watch. I aim a feeble splash.
Louis in the Bog
Coming out of the Bog of Doom I realise how much it has taken out of me. The waist-deep water has sapped the strength from my thighs and I can’t find a rhythm. There’s no time to recover though as the course head straight up another climb. I’m in a group of three now, with the leading woman and another man. There can’t be long left now, if I can stay with them I’ll be pleased. Some more ups and downs, some we walk, some we run, rightly or wrongly I follow their lead on this.
Then, at the top of a particularly cruel one stands the eight-foot tall Devil blocking the path. He’s sending us off to the right, down a 10 foot scramble into a pond. It’s cold again, chest deep, but not as muddy. We scramble up the other bank, a spectator shouts at me to give the lady a hand. Little does he know it was all I could do to get myself up the bank, and anyway, she’s managing just fine.
Louis on the hill
We’re in a quarry now. Back and forth, we cross it three, maybe four times. Each time going over piles of sand that take all my strength. My feet are hitting the ground with a slapping sound now. I’m exhausted. Someone passes me, moving quickly.
The two I was running with before put a couple of metres into me on each of the flatter sections as the cold and hills sap the speed from my legs. We leave the quarry, through the trees, then up ahead more water. It’s not long, but chest deep even for me at well over six feet tall. Some poor souls will have to swim. I drag myself out using what looks like a fence and we’re back on the gravel track. Up ahead I see the finish and muster something resembling a respectable pace.
Hellrunner conquered. I’m covered head to toe in mud, water, sweat and who knows what else. I must smell like the Ganges. Someone points to my legs, I’m bleeding from both of them but I can’t feel a thing. On second thoughts perhaps Hellrunner has conquered me?
The next day I sit at my desk, in my office on Fleet Street, slap bang in the middle of London and a good 20 miles from the nearest substantial piece of proper open ground, reflecting on the events of the previous day. Hellrunner is certainly tough, a baptism of fire for a novice like me, but one to cherish none the less. From fellow competitors through to spectators and, of course, the hundreds of marshals and helpers that make it happen, everyone comes together to create a special kind of atmosphere. And where else could you see fifteen Nuns plunge into a rancid bog followed by a man dressed only in Speedos and goggles, as I did as I made my way back to the car!
As I sit there the results come through on the Hellrunner website. I finished in 1hr 16mins 56sec and 51st place. For my first attempt at proper off road running I’ve got to be happy with that. The problem is I’m not sure that’s going to be the end of it. I could be faster, I just need to find a way to train for these things, to do more of them, to become a proper off-road runner.
I don’t think my weekends are ever going to be the same again…
