Cycle Sportive Report – Fred Whitton Challenge – Sunday 7th May 2017.

Compared to running races, where I have at least 136 recorded finishes to my name, I have a grand total of one cycle race and not many more sportives on my palmares. For those who are not aware of the difference between a cycle race and a sportive, whereas a race usually sees everyone departing at the same time with the goal to find a winner and losers, a sportive is basically a group ride on a course against the clock. For legal reasons to do with road closures (lack of, primarily) and the like, in the UK a sportive can award riders with things like gold medals or distinctions for completing a ride in a certain time. What it cannot do is give you a finishing position – although a lot of results are published in such a way to make it fairly easy to sort by time and then add a column with position if you are curious to see how your performed relative to others.

My first sportive was in November 2007 when I took part in the Exmoor Beast – a tough introduction to group rides, which I thoroughly enjoyed despite the severity of the climbs and suffering a heavy cold at the time. Six months or so later I took part in the Dragon Ride in Wales – a bigger, more famous event, but in my opinion quite an easy ride in comparison to the Beast at the time. Not long after my eldest daughter was born and with the sudden lack of time available to train given the demands of parenthood and my job requiring a lot of overseas travel, cycling pretty much went out of the window for a good number of years.

It was when I fractured my sacrum in 2014, now living in Grantham, when I rekindled my love of cycling that I’ve had, on and off, ever since I began cycling at three years of age. Unable to run, or walk, but strangely able to ride, I joined a cycling club, Witham Wheelers, my first since a very brief membership with Leamington Cycling and Athletics Club back in 1999, I began taking part in group Sunday rides for the first time ever. The following spring I began taking part in their time trials, did badly in my first and only TLI organised bike race, then took part in a small sportive in Yorkshire called the Bronte – where I snapped my chain on the first hill and somehow managed to finish using gears not designed for 20% climbs.

Since 2015 my cycling has slowly increased in volume but has continued to play second fiddle to running. My participation in Duathlons has meant I’ve had to practice the Time Trial more than any other discipline – an event I’m not particularly good at, but need to work on to improve my Duathlons. In 2016, in another busy summer, I took part in two sportives on consecutive days in mid-July: the Wiggle Stratford (Warwick really) Tempest Sportive (Epic) and the Tour of the Cotswolds Sportive (Epic).

The current cycling boom has seen sportives transform from a fairly limited number of events often low in numbers to the current situation where there are literally hundreds of rides to choose from all over the country, some of the largest requiring a ballot to enter and having thousands of riders taking part. One such event is the Fred Whitton Challenge. A 112 mile ride in the Lake District which features 12,000 feet of vertical ascent and traverses some of the park’s most difficult climbs including – Kirkstone, Honister, Newlands, Whinlatter, Hardknott and Wrynose passes. The first Fred Whitton was in 1999 following the passing in 1998 of the Lakes Road Club Secretary whose name was given to the newly established event dedicated to his memory.  It has now established itself as one of the largest sportives in the country, with over 2000 entrants, on the sportive calendar, and this year came under the indirect ownership of the ASO, organisers of the Tour de France no less.

I think I first became aware of the event back in 2007 when I was searching for my first sportive before settling on the Exmoor Beast. Back then the Fred was by the far the daddy of all British sportives, harder than any other and with a bigger reputation. Since then other sportives, such as the Prudential Ride London have become bigger in terms of participation and other sportives, such as the Tour of The Peak can rival the Fred Whitton in terms of the challenge on offer. But the Fred Whitton Challenge largely retains its position as one of the few must do sportives for any keen amateur cyclist.

I’d ducked out on entering in 2016 but entered the ballot in January 2017 for the ride taking place on May 7th. To my joy I was informed a few weeks into the year that my application was successful and I was taking part! One of the challenges of an early season event is that training for the event is not easy over the winter months. It’s more of an issue for myself in that the winter and spring months my training is heavily geared towards the London Marathon. So preparation for the Fred Whitton consisted of the Witham Wheelers Reliability Rides, spinning sessions at the gym and one specific training ride a month or so before the event – the 13 Hills of Belvoir Ride which took in the best of the local hills on a well know club route, done twice in one go. At 118 miles and 8,000 feet of elevation it wasn’t exactly the same as the Fred, but at least it was something.

Another issue was that Fred Whitton comes just two weeks after the London Marathon. I’d expect it will take around a month to fully recover from a marathon. I made the mistake of maybe over doing the running post marathon, acquiring a minor overuse injury, but more worryingly suffering deep fatigue over a week post marathon, which saw my watts drop noticeable on the bike and elliptical trainer, and saw me dropped literally very early on during a chain gang on the Thursday before Fred. I made do with an easy 30 mile ride instead and the reassurance I had two days where I could rest up and recover as best as possible.

Originally the plan had been for the family to head en masse after school on the Friday and spend the weekend in Kendal in the caravan before somehow getting the kids back to school on the Monday morning. Ten days out though the logistics of this through work for my wife in particular meant this idea had to be shelved. Instead I opted to stay in a B&B on the Saturday night and drive home directly after the event. Booking so close to the ride meant very little local availability, but I settled on a The Old School B&B in Tebay. This is around a 50 minute drive from Grasmere, the host town of the Fred Whitton, but I reckoned this would not be too much of an issue with a very early start on the Sunday morning.

I drove up to the B&B on the Saturday afternoon. It was a really easy journey up the A1 to Scotch Corner then along the A66 – roads pretty quiet, weather good. I arrived at the B&& at around 4:30pm. Being the last to book I had been assigned a small broom cupboard of a room, but it was fine – I had a shower, a kettle, a bed and supefast wifi to hook onto and literally catch the last five minutes of the Giro stage. There was no room for the bike, that would have to stay in the boot of the car, but it was well hidden from view on a very quiet road and I felt fairly confident it would still be there in the morning.

With that watched I thought I’d go and loosen the legs with a half hour walk or so. I’d hoped for something super scenic, alas I mostly followed the path of the neighbouring M6 as I walked along the surprisingly sandy footpath alongside the river below.

Avoiding the M6 in Tebay.

The walk duly loosened the legs a little stiff having spent the best part of three hours driving and worked up an appetite. Luckily I’d sourced a pub nearby which was serving food. The Cross Keys Inn has been around for 100s of years. It certainly has a lovely view which we were encouraged to enjoy from the beer garden.

View from the Cross Keys Inn

Alas it was a little too cold to be sitting outside so I had to make do with a pew inside, complete with a glass of wine to help unwind and hopefully send me to an early sleep. I turned up not long after 6pm hence the rather empty appearance of the pub. It wasn’t long after that the pub filled up quite nicely.

 

Pre ride drink!

Food ordered I reread the final ride instructions for the event, taking good note especially of where the hardest climbs and most dangerous descents were. Fortunately the weather forecast was looking dry and not too windy, even if it was set to be a bit chilly first thing in the morning. The food arrived – a pie, which if I was brutally honest, wasn’t the best I’d ever had, but it served a purpose. I treated myself to a sticky toffee pudding for desert, reckoning I’d be riding plenty long enough in the morning to justify the extra calorie intake.

With dinner done and dusted by before 8pm I took another short walk before heading back to my little room – the sun setting offered the opportunity for some nice light as I walked part way up a short, sharp hill. On another day I could have explored for longer, but being sensible I headed back to put my feet up for an hour or so before attempting to get to sleep at around 10pm.

The sun sets over Tebay.
The sun sets over Tebay.

I’m not the best at sleeping in a strange bed, not the best at nodding off at an early hour, and not the best when the mattress is a little on the soft side. It took longer than I would have liked to finally get to sleep as I saw my clock tick over past 11pm, but it was better than it could have been. Paranoid that I wasn’t going to wake I set two alarms for 5am, as is fairly typical for me I woke up two minutes before the alarm went off…

I didn’t have long to get my groove on. The instructions said you could start from any time after 6am, with the last riders being allowed to leave at 8am. I had no intention of being one of the first off, but had plans of wanting to leave at around 7am. Back when I rode a sportive in Yorkshire and had my chain snap on me, I ran perilously close to being eliminated by the broom wagon as I’d set off late. I didn’t want to risk that again.

It was too early for the B&B to offer me any breakfast. I’d come prepared with oats and skimmed milk powder in a newly acquired food thermos. I got the kettle boiled, made myself a proper strong coffee, filled my oats with water and went about getting changed into my cycling shorts. I tried to eat a little breakfast but it was too early, so I packed it in my bag to eat at the start. I did though drink all my coffee before having one last check to make sure I’d not forgotten anything and headed to my car.

To my surprise on an early May morning the windscreen was covered in frost. The temperature read 2C! I hadn’t anticipated it being this cold! Luckily as I set off and headed to Grasmere the temperature soon increased to around 7C. Nippy, but much more comfortable to ride in than barely above freezing. That drive to Grasmere was glorious as the sat-nav avoided the M6 and I had a wonderful former A road all to myself. Even the run in from Kendal to Grasmere wasn’t too busy, albeit probably busier than it would be normally at 6:15am with tell tale bike racks aplenty.

As we approached Grasmere we were confronted by swarms of cyclists who had started the Fred Whitton. The adrenaline began to hit! Inexplicably rather than take the normal A road on the final miles to Grasmere, my SatNav took me the wrong way around the lake, taking in some pretty narrow, steep country lanes. Definitely not the fastest way, I breathed a sigh of relief that the only traffic I faced coming towards me were a couple of runners.

I arrived at the start at around 6:50. The makeshift car park was pretty packed already. Being so late I thought I’d be miles away from the HQ. As luck would have it I was guided in to a spot pretty much right next to the finish line!

Prime position to be parked for the start!
Prime position to be parked for the start!

There was plenty to do in a short space of time. First off I went to collect my number and helmet tag at ride HQ. I passed the Bike Channel TV crew on the way who were preparing to put their first piece of the day to camera (The event was filmed to be shown at some point). Number collection done far faster than expected, I returned to the car.

Just about to get everything from the car. Breakfast takes priority!

Boot lid wedged with old trainer (The struts don’t work in cold conditions!) I got out the porridge and began to eat – a few spoons at a time while preparing the bike. Luckily there wasn’t much to do aside from putting the front wheel on the bike and pumping the tyres, turning on the bike computer and calibrating the power meter pedals. With that done I got changed into my cycling kit and headed to the portaloos where I had to take off my cycling kit to do what I had to do before putting it all back on again. One day I’ll remember that bib shorts are not as easy to deal with in such situations as running shorts…

With the load suitably lightened I had little more to do other than a final bike check, make sure I had everything I needed with me such as malt loaf, gels, compulsory rain jacket, money, phone, car key, inner tubes and so on. By fortune a small saddle bag I’d bought during the week had turned up earlier than expected on the Saturday so I was able to put my tubes and so on in there – otherwise I think I will have struggled to carry everything.

At the start we were offered a banana which seemed to good to resist. A guy wanted me to wait with him so we could ride the first miles together, but he was taking too long so I decided to go it alone. Unlike a running race there is not a lot of fanfare with a sportive start as riders set off when they like, solo or in small groups. I set off solo but within a couple of minutes I was caught by a couple of riders and we then caught three or four more.

The first miles on the A591 to Ambleside are an easy introduction to the ride, being gently undulating at worst. I was trying to conserve energy but with the adrenaline pumping the HR crept a little high for those first miles as we averaged comfortably over 20mph. What wasn’t high was the power meter reading which, despite me feeling I wasn’t riding full gas yet, was showing very low figures, often less than half what I’d expect having ridden with them for several months now. I thought at the time maybe the calibration was wrong, indeed later in the ride during a stop I re-calibrated them to no avail. This lack of power information was a bit annoying as I’d been planning my ride around hitting certain power limits on the climbs especially. On the flip side it meant I had to do what I’ve done for most my life and ride the climbs based on how hard it feels rather than sticking to a prescribed limit. This may or may not have helped me.

(Post ride I was pretty annoyed by this and assumed the pedals to be faulty. The following day I did a Google search, as you do, and found the answer to my lack of power issue. My bike computer has two bike profiles for a Cervelo and a Trek. Normally I just choose the Trek no matter what I ride as the crucial bike measurements are the same. On the morning of the Fred I chose the Cervelo profile, which I assumed I’d checked thoroughly for discrepancies. Sadly there was one and it’s crucial for my pedal based power meter. The crank length, which is a standard 172.5mm, had for some unknown reason changed to 110mm, which is probably an eight year old bike’s crank size. They say a 2.5 mm difference can cause a 20% discrepancy in power readings, my 6.5 mm difference explains why I reckon my average watts was down by around 100 on what I’d expect.)

We swept through Ambleside – a town I’m familiar with on my numerous holidays around Lake Windermere and onto the road where I saw all the riders swoop past me earlier in the morning. The majority of the field had certainly left earlier than I had – it was 7:30 before I finally set off. I knew from driving in that we’d soon turn left off the main road and up the first hill of the day.

That first climb was Holbeck Lane – the Strava segment has it at 0.9 mile at an average gradient of 7%, I took it fairly easy up the climb using it as a good opportunity to try and wake the legs. They didn’t feel brilliant but they did feel as though they could come to life later in the ride. Feeling in my element on the hills I soon left all but one of the riders I had ridden the opening miles with. I left him not long after the steepest bit of the hill which we both remarked on being a good wake up for the legs. I soon began picking off more riders making their way up the hill. This was what I had hoped for by setting off quite late, working off passing up riders to give me more encouragement.

The first climb done there was a little respite before the first major climb of the day – Kirkstone Pass. This was actually the only climb of the day I’d ridden before, albeit on the previous occasion I think I started the climb from a different road perhaps lower down. Just like back then I didn’t find the climb that difficult at three miles long at an average gradient of 6%. Then again, I didn’t ride it that hard, taking time part way up the hill to consume the first of seven small slices of malt loaf I’d planned to take every ten miles. It was on this climb I hooked up with a rider I stuck almost like glue to for the best part of the next 40 miles. Of eastern Asian appearance with what looked like a German inspired cycling jersey I assumed that if he’d traveled from at least Germany to ride he must be pretty good to follow. I actually think he was from Yorkshire, but I liked the idea of having a continental peloton to ride with.

The only real reminder that we had been climbing for the best part of 30 minutes was when we passed the famous Kirkstone Pass Inn – the third highest pub in the UK – and continued climbing, temporarily losing the brilliant blue skies as we rode literally into the clouds. The high point of the ride at 1,489 feet, I was grateful that I was wearing a base layer under my cycling jersey and had opted to ride with full gloves, knee and arm warmers as I felt the chill when climbing, let alone when we started descending.

The first major climb done was followed by the first big descent. The first part was tricky with a 25% initial descent with some tight bends, but it soon leveled out, relatively speaking, and became less twisty, making for an enjoyable drop back down to around 500ft above sea level. The next ten miles were pretty flat. I rode with my German / Asian / White Rosed cycling buddy taking it in turns to keep the pace semi-decent before being caught by two quicker riders. We both sensed an opportunity for a quicker ride at a reduced effort by jumping on their wheels. This proved a success with the pace comfortably averaging over 20mph, despite being held up for a while by a slow moving horse box which allowed an large group of very swift riders to catch us. Staying on this train proved to be hard work, but the speed benefit was worth it as we approached the next climb, especially as we were heading north and into a slight headwind.

We hit the climb to Matterdale End at dead on 20 miles which was unfortunate timing to take on the malt loaf, struggling to swallow and breathe hard at the same time. This large group had some really good riders, some of whom proved to be a little too hot to keep up with. Me and my buddy stuck together on the climb with the two others we had ridden with, which was now proving pretty difficult as there were scores of riders scattered pretty much all over the road. At 1.3 miles and averaging 7.0% this was a challenging climb in that it was steeper in places that it looked making it mentally challenging. That said I rode up it fairly well, especially when we passed the small car park at Aria Force, which I had visited with our family last year – spurring me on to statistically my best climb of the day, as I currently sit 19th for the year on Strava for the hill segment (I assume that most of those times were set on the Fred).

Past Matterdale End came another climb steep at averaging 10%, but only half a mile long so not a big challenge. This took us to Troutbeck and a left hand turn on to the A66. This is a busy main road, one I’d driven on just the previous summer. We were encouraged to use the refuge inside the white line if possible, but I know that riding on this part of the road is an invitation to attract a puncture, so I, like nearly everyone else, rode close to, but just to the right of, the white line. Avoiding the raised cat’s eyes did prove something of a challenge at times as the train gently meandered left and right like a slithering snake. We were advised by the police apparently to ride single file and for the most part this was respected by the riders. I’m not totally sure but I think I was somewhere near the back of a long train of bikes (perhaps 30 long) which may have had some of the quick riders I’d tried to stay with on the Matterdale End Climb.

We rode on the A66 for ten miles and although not entirely effort free, it will be some of the easiest miles I’ve ridden while averaging close to 25mph. Mostly gently downhill and aided with a slight tailwind and the long train of bikes, it was a good opportunity to recover, take on another bit of malt loaf, drink some energy drink and prepare myself for the harder miles that lay ahead.

The A66 journey ended at a large roundabout 34 miles into the ride where my Garmin Edge 810 decided to turn itself off. Normally this leads to a corrupt post ride FIT file and the prospect of having no evidence of my efforts. I was calm though as I’d prepared for this eventuality and was riding with my Forerunner watch which was also recording the ride and has, touch wood, been infallible when recording long bike rides. I turned on the Edge and it slowly came to life, taking around a mile or so to find the satellites and remember what ride it was meant to be following. The only real annoyance was that I didn’t know the overall distance of the ride, nor my average speed without referring to my watch, which I find hard when riding. No major issue, but something to stew over as we continued meandering along some flat to gently undulating roads alongside Derwent Water.

The large group had split up braking for the roundabout and I now found myself in a small group of around six riders, still including my original group of two club mates and Asian / German / Yorkshire buddy, who I never actually talked to, but felt comfortable  enough in his bike skills to follow his wheel like glue, unlike some others who were sometimes a little erratic in their braking. At this point we were slowed quite a bit for around five miles by a double decker sightseeing bus who was struggling to get past slower riders further up the road. A few decided to take some major risks passing the bus on the twisty, narrow, main road. I and most of the others in a swelling group opted to suck it and accept that these obstacles are part and parcel of a sportive held on open roads.

Thankfully we passed the bus when it stopped as we bid farewell to Derwent Water and we enjoyed our last few miles of easy terrain as we passed through Rosthwaite and Borrowdale. At 42 miles passing through Seatoller we had our third big climb of the day and by far the hardest so far in the ride – the Honister Pass. Like the Kirkstone Pass earlier in the ride we were riding up it in the opposite direction to what is recommended in my favourite cycling books 100 Greatest Cycling Climbs and Another 100 Greatest Cycling Climbs. Whereas Kirkstone Pass has a 7/10 for difficulty, Simon Warren rates Honister as 9/10 and the difference in difficulty was soon apparent (Incidentally for any Grantham based people reading this: for comparison, our most feared climb Terrace Hill, scrapes into the first 100 climbs, but is awarded a measly 1/10) . The Strava segments have the climb at 1.5 mile long averaging 10%, with the steepest 0.4 mile averaging a challenging 15%.

After an initial ramp of around 10% the climb soon got tough with a section of 25% to really test the legs. I was very thankful I’d invested in getting a 11-32 rear cassette on the bike – whereas in previous sportives I’ve been desperately trying to turn the pedals on a 25 sprocket, this larger cog at the back made it possible to keep the RPM at around 55 on the steepest sections as opposed to the 30 or less you can expect when trying to turn a bigger gear. It was here I said farewell to my continental / local friend as I pushed on, sticking to the wheel of the two club mates we had picked up way back at the descent of Kirkstone. With the sun shining for the first time I began to get a little warm in the kit I was wearing, but still not enough to justify stopping to strip off. The biggest issue now, aside from keeping going as the climb continued to alternate between stretches of anything from 8-25% was steering a path through the mass of riders all over the road trying to get up the hill with varying degrees of success. Add to that the odd car trying to creep down the hill to contend with and you had plenty on your plate trying to stay upright and in one piece.

I made it to the top, setting the 26th best time on the day for the steep bit on Strava, greeted by loads of spectators cheering us on. Plenty chose to stop and take a rest, I pushed on, albeit extremely carefully. The descent is described as the most beautiful of the lakes passes by Simon Warren when he was climbing it. It was frankly terrifying trying to tackle the 25% descents round hairpin bends on the opening section of the descent followed by technically an easier section made alarming by the huge slab boulders stuck randomly by the road side waiting to catch anyone who made the slightest error on the descent.

I followed the advice of the official instructions and began braking the moment I started to plummet and pretty much kept them on for the worst of the descent, briefly easing off to avoid too much heat build up on the rims. I was concerned by the number of bodies of fallen riders strewn by the side of the road, being tended to by concerned looking marshals and paramedics. I’m fairly sure I passed this poor chap who I believe, speaking to my car park neighbour after the ride, came to grief when his tyre exploded on the descent because of the brake rubbing tyre instead of rim (It may not have been the seriously injured man, but certainly someone crashed because of this on this descent).

My sense of mortality truly awakened by the descent I was relieved to finish the descent and have a fairly easy five miles as we passed through Gatesgarth and approached Buttermere. I heeded the advice of the instructions and took the opportunity to stop for a comfort break ahead of the first official feed station (although I used the trusted farmers’ gate rather than public toilets that I failed to see anywhere en route. My two club mates (Not my club mates but two riders who were probably mates who rode for the same club) had stopped for the same reason a little earlier on the road. I didn’t see them again. This break saw a two minute thirteen second pause as I also fiddled with my pedal calibration without joy, as noted previously above.

The first feed station was small in size, frantic with seemingly hundreds of riders milling around, but brilliantly organised by volunteers who had clearly manned at this point many times in the past. Unlike the Wiggle sportive last year where the first feed station saw a queue as long and as static as the M25 on any given Friday, we moved along the table packed with tempting morsels like an efficient factory conveyor belt. Acutely aware that we were less than half way into the ride and with much of the hardest miles yet to ride, I dived for the malt loaf, then took a piece covered with jam, took two pieces of flapjack, two jaffa cakes, a cheese and onion sandwich, two SIS energy bars, then one more piece of malt loaf and jam just for luck. I ate all of this except for the energy bars in the time it took me to walk back to my bike. I made the mistake of not bringing my empty bottle with me so had to return to have it filled with some electrolyte, costing me two or so more minutes. Removing my bike from the stone wall was a precision exercise as around 20 bikes were all relying one another to stay upright. Thankfully the rider next to me was leaving at the same time and we worked like a crack team to prise our bikes from the chain without mangling our or anybody else’s precious carbon. Six minutes seventeen seconds was the time taken at the first of two feed stations, which wasn’t too bad considering the business of the cramped venue.

As warned by the pre-race instructions, there was not a lot of time to keep down your food before the next big climb of the ride – Newlands Hause (#81 in the 100 Greatest Climbs). It was here that the organisers decided to stick in a KOM timed hill climb challenge. I didn’t get off to the best start when I was stuck behind some slower riders, but with them out of the way, i made really good progress, feeling like I made light work of the 8/10 ranked ride which Strava reckons averages 11% for the 1.2 mile ascent. The final results show I finished just outside the top 50 for the climb, which is pleasing in a field of over 2000. The organisers really went to town as we hit the steepest part at nearing the top of the climb with polka dot flags, music and enthusiastic supporters urging us on.

The five mile descent that followed was thankfully a lot less challenging and therefore pretty enjoyable once the steep opening section had been safely negotiated. By now I was largely riding solo, passing more riders than I was being passed by, although every now and then a small group of riders on another level ability wise would come shooting past me with no hope of me jumping on their wheel.

Immediately before the next climb there was a brief delay when another bus (Single decker this time) again struggled to thread its way through the oncoming traffic. Thankfully some highly efficient marshaling meant we our disruption was kept to a minimum and we could attack the next climb, #82 in the 100 Greatest Climbs – the Whinlatter Pass. This was probably my favourite climb of the ride. It only rates 5/10 in the good book which meant it was a challenging, but not overly taxing affair. I rode it well, feeling strong, buoyed on by the crowds of people who had been encouraged by the organisers to use this climb as a vantage point, and they did so, lining the road cheering us on like we were in the the Tour De Yorkshire or other less well spectated bike races, like the Tour De France.

With the descent that followed there was another five miles of fairly easy riding to the sixty mile point before the 20 mile section described amusingly on a Strava segment the shit bit. Whether this is a reference to the undulating terrain that begins to tax on a rapidly wearying body, or the relative lack of scenic surroundings compared to the majesty of the rest of the Lakes (we had a good view of Sellafield Nuclear Power Station by the Irish Sea at Calder Bridge) I’m not sure. Regardless I ploughed on, enjoying the challenges of such climbs as Fangs Brow at 65 miles and Burn Edge (#180 in Another 100 Greatest Climbs) at 75 miles. This one was a 6/10 and as Simon says, it’s a climb that cries wolf, appearing to end then going on again and again for what seems an eternity.  It did end though, a gazebo with very loud music welcoming us with biscuits handed out on the fly if you were lucky enough to hold onto one (I managed, just).

That climb tackled there were a couple of tricky hairpins to contend with as we approached Calder Bridge and the second feed station at 82 miles. This was where my biggest mistakes of the day were made. I’d been feeding quite happily on the SIS Energy Bars, and still had a couple of bits of malt loaf  and two Power Gels remaining. With 30 miles to go I should have just taken on more electrolyte, bagged another couple of energy bars, maybe a small piece of flapjack and been on my way. However I let the prospect of Hardknott Pass ten miles or so up the road interfere with rational thinking and so went on a ridiculous binge: a coffee while I returned to my bike to get the bottles I forgot again; I filled the bottles with electrolyte, then put the bottles back on the bike, to head back to the feed tables where I ate 3 or 4 bits of malt loaf with jam, three bits of flapjack, a couple of Jaffa Cakes, another cheese and onion sandwich, all stuffed down the gullet before I returned to my bike with another couple of energy bars stuffed into the back pocket. What with taking a minute to have some sun screen applied to the back of my neck (which I’d forgotten to do back at the B&B) and then removing the long fingered gloves and arm warmers, only to stop immediately after and put the arm warmers back on, I spent over eleven and a half minutes at the second feed station when I could have and should have spent a maximum of five, and could arguably have done without stopping at all.

Back on my way there was a brief section on the main coast road which wasn’t that pleasant before we headed onto a much more scenic road that would lead to Hardknott itself. Before then we had Irton Pike, which averaged 9% at it’s steepest part but wasn’t too troublesome. That tackled there was a section of four miles that was gently rising. It was here I began to feel the affects of taking on too much food. I felt distinctly queasy, nauseous, and at times quite dizzy. It was a little unsettling, the only thing I could be thankful for was that I was cycling and not running, so at least the stomach wasn’t being bounced around leading to inevitable, catastrophic, gastric distress.

We’d had warning signs a little way back that a road followed that should not be navigated by anything other than small, light vehicles, Then, in the distance I spotted a gap in the trees with a solitary red telephone box that I knew from The 100 Greatest Climbs meant the start of the hardest climb of the day – Hardknott Pass. Ranked as 10/10 for difficulty and described by Mr Warren as the king of climbs and arguably the hardest climb in the land. I’d seen the footage on Youtube and knew this was going to be tough – probably too tough with the way I felt right then, right now.

Past the telephone box and another set of severe warning signs there is a short steep climb through some woodland, over a cattle grid and out into the open where you are faced with the enormity of what awaits – a ribbon of narrow tarmac that just disappears off into the sky. Simon says the first switchbacks are 25% followed by a section of 30% before it levels off before it’s finale at the end where there is a section of some more 30% to battle up.

Sadly today I failed on the first 25% section. Feeling rubbish and swayed a little too easily by the pre-race instructions that suggested it’s almost more worthwhile walking than trying to cycle up, I unclipped at the first section of 25% and walked rather than risk grinding to a halt and falling off. At that moment the prospect of trying to ride up that hill seemed like the most ridiculously hard thing I’d ever been expected to do. So ridiculous, there was little point.

Detemined to minimise time lost I wasted no time in trying to walk up as quickly as you can up 1:4 and 1:3 roads in cycling shoes with their cleats pushing a bike and all that goes with it. It turned out that was almost as quick as trying to ride as many inched past me still in their saddles before I inched back past them feeling the strain in my calf muscles and hamstrings.

Once the road leveled a bit I was back on my bike, arm warmers down, jersey partially unzipped, working hard. Leveling though is a relative term with the gradient regularly in excess of 15%. The benefit of walking up the steepest bits was that, a bit fresher, I was able to re-pass a lot of the riders who had managed to ride past me and were now out of gas.

Hardknott, when I was on the bike! Picture © Steve Fleming Photography

There was just the matter of the final kick of 30% to tackle. On another day with a happier digestive system and body that wasn’t having a blood sugar overload emergency on its hands, I would have given this climb a bloody good stab at riding the whole damned lot. With a compact crank on the front (that’s smaller chain rings attached to the cranks and the pedals) I would have definitely got up there. That’s why if you watch the video above some appear to be getting up with relatively little difficulty, whereas others are pedalling as though the cranks have been super glued, and others, like myself, have resorted to walking. The really sassy ones also fit mountain bike cassettes to their back wheel which means you can spin up 30% climbs with relative ease, not relatively quickly, but you look cool still on your bike as opposed to the failures who have resorted to walking.

So with those excuses put on the table – I walked the final section, along with around half those around me. I did though mount the bike before reaching the very top. The brutal part of a climb like this is that, unless, you stop and have a moment to compose yourself, you have to concentrate hard on the very dangerous descent that follows immediately after. There was no time to recover, it was full on pulling the brake levers as hard as I could just to keep the speed under check, let alone consider coming to a halt. There were moments I thought I wouldn’t be able to stop, like two guys just a few moments before me, who had just gone done and literally gone off the mountain, falling hard apparently onto some form of ravine.

There were cries from spectators for help, for medical assistance. It didn’t sound good. Other riders offered up to stop and assist but we were informed that there were already people down there trying to assist. Just like in London I felt I was in no position to help, so the best course was to try and get down avoiding the distinct possibility of joining them on the casualty list. (As far as I know those riders were not badly injured in the accident).

Thankfully just when I thought my upper body could not hold onto the brakes much longer, the steepness of the descent subsided and I was able to recover somewhat. In another moment of questionable tactics I stopped at Cockley Beck where someone was handing out bottles of water. I had a full 750ml bottle of electrolyte remaining which would have easily lasted the 15 or so remaining miles, but the preservation instinct kicked in and I spent the best part of two minutes slowly filling my bottle. When I got home and lifted my bike with and without the two nearly full water bottles (I didn’t take on much more liquid after Hardknott), I realised how much extra weight I was unnecessarily taking with me on the final hard climb of the day that immediately followed.

Wrynose is #85 in the book, ranked 10/10 and described as the queen to it’s neighbouring king (Hardknott). This coming at nigh on 100 miles into the ride and so quickly after Hardknott meant it was a real beast. I knew it was coming and was warned, but much less is made of it than Hardknott. Mentally that made it easier, for although some of the gradients were in excess of 25% the climb, apart from the last little section (which I may or may not have walked – I genuinely cannot remember, although my cadence data suggests I walked 🙁 ) it wasn’t as taxing and I made it up with minimal distress, starting to feel a little less nauseous.

The final major challenge of the day was getting safely down Wrynose. Although not as steep as Hardknott, the section where near permanent braking is required is longer. My arms were by now killing me and I had to shout to myself to summon the energy to keep on braking. It’s a ridiculous situation where you are working nearly as hard downhill as you are uphill. The rather uncomfortable situation was amplified by some alarming squeals coming from the front brakes as I kept on plummeting down the hill while braking fully. Luckily just as I thought that something catastrophic was going to happen we had a long stretch of straight descent and I could release the brakes and allow them to recover. On inspection at the end of the ride I noticed they had worn significantly over the ride, but I think the squeal was more to do with heat build up than impending brake failure.

With 100 miles in the bag I knew from the instructions that the final 12 miles to the finish were relatively easy. On quite a technical descent I got on the back of two riders who encouraged me to join their train. This was quite beneficial as the lead rider seemed to have good knowedge of the roads and I could follow his quite fast lines fairly safely. I thought I would be able to hitch onto their train for the remainder of the ride but on the last little drag on the ride they slowed and then eased up to wait for a friend they had dropped.

Feeling quite fresh after the strains of the two previous passes I pushed on as best I could with a rider stuck firmly to my rear wheel (He thanked me at the end for the free ride, which was kind of him). Like many others arriving back into Grasmere at that time of day I lost a couple of minutes with slow moving traffic that had to be safely navigated. This made it impossible to give it full gas, thankfully any hopes of a super-sub-7 hour ride had long since passed and i was just riding to the finish.

That I did safely and relatively fresh after my uncomfortable section at 95 miles. My official time was 7:16. There are no finishing positions in a sportive, but a re-sorting of the results suggests I was around the 120th fastest rider on the day and I was awarded a First Class Distinction, a gold medal, so to speak, based on my finishing time. My Garmin time which takes out the stops, was 6:42:43, but I think that misses out a fair chunk of Hardknott when I walked and the computer auto paused. Still it means that the cherished sub 7 hour ride was within grasp, as it was for two guys who finished just behind me, almost in tears and hugging each other having cracked 7-hours on their tenth attempt. With knowledge of the course, more nouse at the feed stations and probably a compact crank, I think I can do it too. For the record only 10 riders broke the magic 6 hour barrier, the fastest Nick Williamson in 5:45.

A queue at the finish.
An ultra-rare selfie at the finish.
My reward at the finish.

There was a bit of a queue at the finish as riders stopped to collect their print out of the results and their commemorative pint glass – filled with Erdinger alcohol free beer if you so wished (I politely declined). I phoned my wife as soon as I returned to my car to let her know I had finished safely. Originally I planned to hang around and recover for an hour or two before driving home. However, after packing the bike and having a quick wander around (Where I picked up my finishing certificate), I realised that I was probably best off trying to leave the still pretty full car park before the majority of the field attempted to do so. There was little to stay for as the the queue for the free post race meal was horrendous and I felt like I would never have to eat again after the second feed station (It took until 10pm that evening before I felt like doing so).

I left shortly before 4pm. For reasons best known to my satnav, rather than take me on the easy, mostly dual carriageway route I took getting to the Lakes, it would take me on a tortuous run through to Bradford. before finally hitting the via the M62. It took over an hour to cover the first 12 miles, it would be four and a half long hours before I got home, almost more painful than the ride itself thanks to some sciatic pain.

To conclude…. An amazing ride, as hard and as brilliant as I thought it would be – Hardknott perhaps harder. The organisation is quite informal but quietly slick, the marshaling and signposting exemplary. I can see why it is still arguably considered the daddy of all the tough sportives we now have in this country. I will definitely want to do it again – an official sub-7 as enticing as a sub 2:45 marathon. Whether I’d do it in heavy rain or wind is another matter. It’s a hard and at times dangerous ride without those elements bringing more dangers. We were blessed with near perfect conditions, it was nearly a perfect ride. Damn you Hardknott and too much food!!!

I also would love to do the ride in a more informal manner, taking in the majesty of one of the my most favourite places in the world (Except when it is full of tourists, which is most of the time…), fully enjoying the breathtaking views and treating the feed stations more like relaxed coffee stops than the raids they turned into.

Thoroughly recommended, not for the novice cyclist, but a ride that any cyclist who likes their hills should be looking to complete.

 

Race Report – London Marathon – Sunday April 23rd 2017

 

Part 1 – The Training

Training for the London Marathon built upon the structure laid down for the 2016 race, which I felt was highly successful, even if illness and some injury issues culminated in a sub-optimal race performance. As with that effort and efforts of recent years, there was no rigid plan laid out, just a few key sessions that I tried to perform every week.

January 17 Training

January was a month with base building in mind up to the Folksworth 15 on January 22nd.
not just for running but for cycling too – the Clumber Park Duathlon in March an event I was not training specifically for, but definitely had on my mind. Actually the only session missing from this month compared to later months was the lack of a marathon paced run. These are one of the two key run sessions in my weekly training – the other being the Long Run. These began in February starting with four miles at marathon pace or heart rate, depending on how I felt, and increasing week by week until I was running 8-9 miles at marathon pace in a run varying between 11-16 miles.

A difference from previous years is that the long run was long pretty much from the start of the year. Another feature of the long run was that it was always on the Saturday (I cycled on the Sunday) and it incorporated a parkrun at some point in the run at pace. I’d tinkered with this in 2015 and early 2016, but made it a regular event in late 2016 and decided to carry it through into my marathon training. The first long run in January had 8 miles, then parkrun and a three mile jog home.

February 17 Training

By the second week of February this had increased to 13 miles, then parkrun, then eight miles to finish. This was unusually early for what is usually my longest distance when marathon training. I trumped that a month later in March when I ran 14.5 miles, then parkrun in 18:02, and then eight miles to make up a 26.6 mile run. This is the first time in training I’ve ever run the marathon (Slightly more than, mirroring the likely finishing distance on my Garmin down in London on April 23rd) distance and moreover the time taken to run a marathon was 2:51! This gave me great confidence going forward as the run felt very comfortable – I could have gone much faster if needed. Following that effort I ran twice more in excess of twenty miles – an equally important run was the last twenty miler in early April, which was 10 miles, then the Grantham Cup (a hilly, off road 10K – where I finished 6th) and a four mile jog to conclude.

In total I ran 10 ‘Long Runs’ (Runs I marked as Long on my training log) totaling 200.5 miles at an average pace of 6:40. There were numerous runs of 12-16 miles that I didn’t classify as long runs as I had run longer elsewhere in the week. Suffice to say I really rate the long run with the fast parkrun thrown in at some point.

March 2017 Training

There were no two weeks that were identical in layout, but roughly a week’s training looked a little like this:

Monday: An easy paced run in the morning (typically 10k or 10 miles) with a spinning session in the evening. When the clocks went forward I jogged to and from the spinning session (10K).

Tuesday: Most weeks I spent an hour or perhaps two on the elliptical trainer, followed by 11 easy miles in the evening while my daughter was at Brownies. Once I did a long run in the morning. There was one intervals session in March (The one and only during my marathon training) and in April I began time trialing (cycling) again in the evening.

Wednesday: The morning was usually when I ran my marathon paced run – typically 10-12 miles. In the evening I was on my Turbo Trainer. Most efforts were easy and no more than an hour.

Thursday: Most evenings saw me take a marathon paced session for Grantham Running Club, where we’d run anything from 3-8 miles usually at between 7-7:30 pace. Overall distance for myself was anything between 11-15 miles. Quite a lot of weeks saw me on the Turbo Trainer in the morning.

Friday: Most Fridays in January and February either saw me on the elliptical trainer or on the Turbo Trainer. I ran once and in late March I did a 118 mile very hilly cycle ride in anticipation of the upcoming Fred Whitton bike ride. In March and April, Fridays frequently became a rest day.

Saturday: This was usually long run day – usually with a parkrun thrown in.

Sunday: Most Sundays up to the middle of March saw me take part in the Witham Wheelers Reliability rides, which began at 32 miles and peaked at 68. I made a point of running a 5k brick after the ride. Once these ended I ran on a Sunday.

April 2017 Training

The taper began two weeks out. I kept the intensity of effort fairly high but gradually reduced the volume. The Saturday before (eight days out) I headed to Beeston to run 11 miles with a quick parkrun after 3 miles. warm up. The Sunday was a little unusual as I went on the elliptical trainer for 2 hours 40 minutes – a kind of marathon simulation if you like, but relatively easy on the legs. This had the effort of making the legs quite sore for a few days, but I still put in a 90% intensity TT on the Tuesday and then a 10 mile run on the Wednesday with 5k at marathon HR. The 5k was 17:35 which proved to me at least that I was peaking at just the right moment.

Reverting to my old ways, I decided after that effort to take three days of complete rest, save the school runs and a fair amount of stretching and strength work. Mentally this was quite hard but I think my body enjoyed the rest! By Saturday I was chomping at the bit to get out running.

I raced three times before the marathon – the Folksworth 15 in January (7th, 1:28:23), the Newton’s Fraction Half Marathon (4th – 1:18:01) and the Grantham Cup 10K (6th 40:34) There was also the Clumber Park Standard Distance Duathlon where I finished third in my Age Group, qualifying for the 2017 European Duathlon Championships.

Some things worth noting: I used the elliptical trainer a lot less than I did for training in 2016, but I did compensate somewhat by using the turbo training a fair amount compared to not at all during the marathon training of 2016.

Apart from a half-gas club pyramid session in early January and a more concerted 10×2 minutes effort in late March, there were no interval, rep, or hill sessions.

Injury wise I was very fortunate – I don’t recall having to miss nor compromise a session due to injury, whereas in 2016 I spent a good deal of the time battling niggles. However, while I didn’t suffer injury, I was plagued with colds mostly brought home by my daughter who began nursery. I reckon there was only a week in total up to around mid February where I wasn’t either suffering from a cold or feeling run down from having had a cold. This was shown starkly on the bike and elliptical trainer, where power was measurably down on previous years, and running, where I felt I was unable to maintain pace when the HR climbed high. I knew that the fitness was there though, as on the days when I was illness free, the expected watts and pace was present and correct.

There was also a suspicion at times that I was over training, which is one of the main reasons why I opted to tone down the volume of elliptical trainer sessions in particular. This meant that perhaps more than ever the emphasis was on quality rather than quantity, although there was still a fair amount of quantity and not a lot of rest days in the build up.

Part 2 – To The Start

The conclusion to my taper was three days of rest. I stretched, massaged, tried to do as little as possible. Many things remained constant to previous marathons – pasta on the Thursday and Friday; pizza the night before. I had contemplated doing the old school carb depletion but thought better of it in the end having read about how horrible it can be and no definitive consensus on whether it works. I headed to bed shortly after ten pm with a 5 am wake up call to look forward to. My wife, suffering a heavy cold along with my two daughters, generously offered to sleep in another bedroom to minimise the chance of infection and so I didn’t have to hear her coughing through the night. This martyr like behaviour paid dividends as mercifully I was asleep within minutes and I slept well – perhaps a little too well.

I woke wondering what on earth I was doing waking at 5 am before coming to my senses and remembering I had a marathon to run. I made those first tentative steps out of bed (I’m getting old, I always creak a little these days on waking up). All was well except a little tightness in the right hip – tightness I’d not been aware of in the whole of my marathon training. I put it down to having perhaps slept in a slightly odd position and tried not to think too much of it.

I made myself a strong coffee and changed into my Skins A400 compression shorts and 2XU calf sleeves. Since the bitterly cold Newton’s Fraction Half Marathon, where my quads especially suffered, I’d invested in some quality compression half tights. I first wore them for my 26.6 mile training run and loved the feeling they gave – very similar to the brick runs I often do in my cycling shorts. I find the compression in the quads somehow makes me run faster or at least give the impression of running faster. I’ve worn them numerous times and despite learning a painful lesson that some kind of wicking underwear is strongly advised on warm days – I chafed where no man wants to chafe – they have now become my turn to shorts for hard training sessions and races, so much so I have invested in four (heavily discounted) pairs of them.

I left Grantham by car with my wife and my eldest daughter at 5:45. I had planned originally to leave at 6 am but my wife looked at the train time table and noticed that the 7:20 or so train I thought I’d caught in previous years was now either a 7:03 or a 7:39 – much later than I thought it was. So I made good use of the near empty A1 to safely drive to Stevenage station with a few minutes to spare to catch the 7:03 to Kings Cross, bidding farewell to my wife who drove off to park the car.

Ticket bought I went down to platform 6 as the departures board suggested to catch the train. I noticed the platform was empty; platform 1 had a reasonable volume of nervous looking folk carrying the same Marathon baggage bags I had, so I assumed there had been a platform change. So I ran up the platform stairs, over the concourse and down to platform 1 where I heard the tannoy announcement, something along the lines of ‘Arriving now on platform 1 is possibly the 7:03 to Kings Cross which will wait at the station until the driver finds out what he is meant to do.’ Cue audible groans from 90% of the platform who sensed the passage to central London was not going to be as smooth as hoped.

The train arrived and waited for a few minutes. Another announcement ‘we are really sorry but the 7:03 has been cancelled due to over running engineering works. We are really sorry if this is going to ruin your day.’ Cue more consternation followed by another message a minute or so later ‘This train is going to leave the platform, turn around and return to platform 6 where it will be the delayed 7:03’

Cue around 100 potential passengers and marathon runners bounding up and down the platform stairs to platform 6. The train duly pulls out and returns. We get on board. We are then told ‘The train on platform 6 will be the 7:39 to Kings Cross. A train shortly arriving on platform 1 will be the delayed 7:03 to Kings Cross. We are really really sorry if this is going to ruin your day’ repeated the clearly concerned station announcer, who likely knew that this is the only early Sunday morning at Stevenage train station which sees any more than a handful of passengers and now she had the onerous task of possibly announcing to hundreds of runners their marathon plans had been ruined because someone had screwed up not screwing back up the track in time.

So we all got out of the train on platform 6 and bounded up the stairs to platform 1 where indeed a train was waiting. I got on the train and phoned my wife, who was just buying tickets, to make it down to platform 1 so she could catch the same train as I. Just as she came down she overheard another message which informed us passengers that the train on platform 1, which was to be the delayed 7:03, was now going to be the 7:39 and the train that was the 7:03 on platform 1, was cancelled, but then left to go to platform 6 to become the resurrected 7:03, only to become the 7:39, had, once again, become the delayed 7:03.

With some now literally in tears at the ridiculousness of the situation (Well one was in tears and that was because she was meant to be catching a plane to Canada) we all, once again, hot footed it off the train, up the stairs from platform 1, across the concourse, down the stairs to platform 6. A confirmation from the station guard that this would be the delayed 7:03 while the station announcer now just repeatedly apologised for ruining our day.

At around 7:25 the delayed 7:03 to Kings Cross did finally get on its way. The driver apologised 2 or 3 more times for the frankly shambolic situation and promised to try and make up as much time as possible. He kept to his word – in the end we arrived at Kings Cross at about the time I’d expected to arrive had I caught the 7:20 I imagined existed, but didn’t.

Of more concern was that my right hip, around the hip flexor, was now aching quite a bit and beginning to cramp up. I became increasingly agitated. My wife gave me optimistic vibes – such as better the cramp happens now rather than during the race. But I was not a happy bunny. As we disembarked the train we said again our farewells and I headed to the Northern Line, to catch a couple of trains to get to Charing Cross.

Exiting the station at Charing Cross there is a lengthy walk from the underground station to the mainline station. As I approached the main station itself my right hip almost locked up completely and I was reduced to a slow, limping, painful, shuffle. What on earth was going on? An almost injury free build up and now rendered almost useless by nothing more than getting a good night’s sleep!

It turned out I was a little earlier than last year, the train I caught was nearly empty when I got on, still limping heavily. One runner on the train commented ‘That doesn’t look good!’ I simply replied ‘NO IT IS NOT!‘ and with my tone he thought better than to offer any more commentary on the situation as I sat head mostly in my hands save for the two or three times I banged it against the back of the chair in front of me. The only saving grace is that no-one was particularly inclined to sit next to me as I went through a maelstrom of mental torment.

I literally began to message my wife informing her that I wouldn’t be able to start the marathon, when I pulled my self together somewhat and thought it would probably be best if I at least tried to make it to the start the marathon before deciding whether I could compete. The train journey seemed to last an interminably long time. Finally we arrived at around 9 am and I left with hundreds of others to make it to the start. Last year I was full of excitement at the prospect of my first Championship start, this year I almost wanted to be anywhere else, convinced that I would be one of the 200 or so who doesn’t manage to complete the London Marathon – possibly one of the very few who makes it to the start tent, but goes no further.

There was a glimour of hope when the pain in the hip appeared to ease somewhat as I walked across Blackheath to the Championship start. At the Championship entrance I went through the protocol of showing my race number and the club t-shirt I’d planned on using. I’d bought along a vest just in case the official insisted that a vest be worn, as per the strict definition of the rules. He seemed purely preoccupied with whether the manufacturer’s logo was not too large, and as it isn’t I was fine.

I headed straight to the changing tent, grabbed a bottle of water and made a small patch my own. With only around 40 minutes to the start and with threats already being made that the baggage lorry would leave imminently, I swiftly got changed, opting to wear the Hoka One One Clifton 2 I had mothballed since last wearing them at the Folksworth 15 back in January, then put in a deep piraformis stretch. I noticed a few friends who were also on the Championship start but my mood was dark and I was in no mood for small talk. Instead I grabbed the three gels I planned on using, tucked them in my handy back pocket on my Skins shorts, put a hole in the black bin bag I’d brought to keep me warm, left the tent to put my bag on the lorry and queued for the loos. While queuing I performed all manner of hip flexor, hip, quad and hamstring stretches. By the time my time had come to enter the Portaloo of relief, there was less than 20 minutes to the start.

There was 15 to go when I exited the slightly heavier portable toilet and made by way to the start via a short jog up and down the strip of road reserved for Championship starters. To my relief I noted that I could run relatively pain free and with no noticeable change in gait. I kept the warm up to the minimum and joined the other runners, just behind the elites at the start line. In a last attempt to rectify the hip I performed a Psoas massage (or what I considered to be the Psoas) on my stomach. This was very tender – I surmised I had found the likely cause of the problem. It appeared to give instant relief so as the final countdown began I was a little calmer and a touch more optimistic. I fully expected to hit trouble at some point, but, at least I may be able to get some miles in the bag before I did.

With seconds to go, I discarded the bin bag and took stock that weather conditions could hardly be better, light cloud that threatened sunshine (Justifying the sunglasses), the temperature around 10C and barely any wind. It wasn’t meant to get that much warmer, although the sun was expected to make more of an appearance. As the clock struck 10 and the horn was sounded by our Royal guests, I was ready to race.

Part 3 – The Marathon

As in previous marathons, no matter how worked up I got myself before the start of the race (And this year surely set some kind of record) once I crossed the start line an almost serene sense of calmness came over me, borne largely from a sense of relief that within around half a minute of running, I noticed that the right hip was neither hurting nor causing me any kind of obvious bio-mechanical disruption.

On the same start in 2016 it took me a good few minutes before the congestion eased enough for me to get into unhindered running. This year there was no such problem, indeed within a couple of minutes I was having to curb my enthusiasm to avoid getting up to full speed too early – the plan being to use the tried and tested routine of 150 bpm max for the first mile, 155 bpm max for mile two, 160 bpm for mile three then 165 bpm from miles 4-20 before letting the HR climb as high as it could muster for the final 10km.  A few seconds before the official opening mile marker, the Garmin clocked the first mile at 6:28. 13 seconds faster than my opening mile in 2016 and almost certainly my fastest opening mile in a marathon. The HR was a few beats higher than planned but I think, such was my relief in even being able to run, I didn’t concern myself over a few beats discrepancy.

The slightly high HR continued for the second mile, albeit at 159 bpm average, well under my marathon max of 165 bpm. By now I was settled into my running, enjoying the already dense and enthusiastic crowd support, but doing my best not to get carried away by it. Mile 2 was clocked in 6:10, 11 seconds up on 2016.

The third mile on the London Marathon course is mostly downhill and as a result usually one of the fastest of the marathon. Coming down the long gradual downhill I felt a touch of tightness in my right IT band, quite low down near the knee. I had no doubt it was related to the tight hip before the start. It concerned me greatly but hoped that once we hit the roundabout at the end of the hill, the discomfort would ease off. Thankfully it did and the IT band would not grumble for the remainder of the race.

Something to take my mind off the IT band was the fact I’d caught up with a female runner wearing a vest adorned with Chrissie on the back. I eyed her up and down and soon realised by the cyclists’ calf muscles it was Ironman legend Chrissie Wellington. I was expecting the crowd to be shouting her name vociferously given she was probably at the time one of the leading celebrity runners, but very few seemed to recognise her. Indeed far more attention was given to the fancy dressed Viking sticking resolutely to her shoulder. I sat behind the pair of them for a few minutes as I passed passed through the third mile in 5:55 (5:58 in 2016) and through the official 5k split in 19:16, before sensing their pace was just a  bit slow for me and I pressed on. Chrissie would go on to finish in 2:49:01, the Viking I’m not sure about but he is mentioned by character in Athletics Weekly, so he likely continued to do pretty well.

At mile 5 of the marathon.
Picture c/o Robert McArdle.

The run from Woolwich to Greenwich was where it all began to fall apart last year, the early onset of cramps, or myofascial pain as I’ve been instructed to call it, slowly rendering me a walking, miserable mess by 21 miles. I was very concerned I was going to go the same way given the hip scare and the IT band discomfort, but for now I was running pain free, running quite quickly and it was feeling very comfortable. Mile 4 was 5:58, (5:57 in 2016), mile 5 was 6:06 (6:07 in 2016). The HR average for mile 4 was 159, pleasingly much lower than the maximum I give myself of 165 bpm. I did though notice near the end of the mile that my HR was showing well over 170 and at one point registering 183, which would be the highest I’ve seen it since a very hard 5k a couple of years ago. These weird readings continued in miles 5 and 6 – my theoretical max of 188 was all but reached in mile five and the sixth saw my heart go into overdrive – 210 BPM! It’s never been anywhere near that high and I assumed that either I was picking up someone else’s HR or something was amiss with the strap.

At mile 5 of the marathon.
Picture c/o Robert McArdle.

It was annoying in one sense as I do like to run my marathons to HR. However I had established a pace and a perceived effort for at least one mile at (slightly less than) target HR, so could instead fall back on trying to stick to that pace and effort for the rest of the race. Somewhat old-school, it felt strangely liberating. I sporadically looked at my HR during the race. Sometimes it would look half realistic, then I’d look again and it would show something crazy like 215 BPM, It did this for the rest of the race. I assumed the strap had broken, but I’ve worn it a number of times since and had no issues – so I’ve no idea what caused this to happen.

Back to the race. Mile 6 was 6:04 (6:10 in 2016), the discrepancy in my Garmin mile splits and the real mile markers was up to 25 seconds. From past experience I knew this was going to happen and would grow over the course of the marathon. It’s not a big deal, just something to factor in when trying to calculate your likely finishing time on the fly. I passed the official 10k approaching the right turn at Greenwich in 38:19 – 19:03 for the second 5k. I was loving the enthusiasm of the crowds. Strangely though, as we passed the Cutty Sark and Greenwich itself, the crowds, although vast in quantity, were perhaps some of the quietest on the course. This suited me as it’s usually an area where it’s impossible to avoid an adrenaline surge.

I took my first of three gels at seven miles and with it the only the second water bottle of the race thus far. In every marathon since 2005 I’ve taken six gels, this year I decided to go with three, at 7, 14, and 20 miles. The reasoning was twofold – most of my long training runs are done without breakfast beforehand, let alone sustenance while running itself. Therefore I reckoned that six gels may be a bit excessive. Moreover I wondered if some of the gastro distress suffered in recent marathons may have been partly down to having to cope with digesting too many gels and the water that is needed to go with it. For the remainder of the race I pretty much stuck to taking on water at the mile where I’d taken a gel and the water station a mile later. With the weather not being particularly warm, this tactic seemed to work well. I was reasonably dehyrated at the finish, but not in a state that affected my performance.

The third 5km chunk of the race was fairly uneventful although I do remember a section with a small incline around a supermarket featuring some of the loudest crowds of the race as I coincidentally passed a runner who was walking dressed as a bricklayer. He had no number and clearly had never been running from the start of the race. Indeed en route during the race I must of seen a handful of runners who didn’t look as though they had been at the start line or spectators who appeared to be undressing in a manner that suggested they were about to take part in the race. I guess there is little that can be done to stop this. I found it more amusing than anything, a welcome distraction from worrying about how far there was to go. For the record, miles 7, 8 and 9 were 5:59, 6:03 and 6:03 (6:02, 6:08, 6:07 in 2016). I went through 15k in 19:01 – this would be the fastest proper 5k split of the race (I’ll explain why it might not be the fastest in a bit…).

The tenth mile is one of the quieter miles in terms of crowd support, but this year there was really no such thing as a quiet part of the course. It was where I caught up and eventually passed Joe Spraggins, who turned out to be the fastest of the numerous fancy dressed runners, finishing in 2:42:24. His attire was hardly restrictive however, dressed in little more than a pair of Speedos, a swim hat, goggles and snorkel. He certainly caught the attention of the crowd, who all knew his name thanks to Joe being scrawled on his bare chest!

The tenth mile split was in 6:09 (6:02 in 2016), 1:01:00 exactly on my watch for ten miles. I hadn’t yet clocked any indication as to what my final time may be, especially as the Garmin was around 40 seconds out on the official distance. More worryingly bang on 10 miles the right hip that had caused so much distress before the start of the race, now decided it was the right time to give some quite painful distress signals. Rather than massage the hip itself, I decided to prod firmly the same bit of tummy that I had done on the start line, which mercifully appeared to give some relief. I don’t know if what I was doing actually made any difference, but the pains seemed to subside whenever I did prod myself. So this I continued to do, with increasing regularity, for the remainder of the race.

Mentally that was a low point in the race. I knew that my wife, daughter, brother and his fiance, had planned to try and spectate somewhere around the 11 mile point. I gave serious consideration to dropping out when I spotted them, to save them the bother of trying to see me further along the course. Luckily at the moment when they saw me and I saw them, giving a quick wave as I passed, I wasn’t in pain so that thought quickly left my mind and it was back to hoping and waiting that the wheels wouldn’t fall off the wagon. Just after passing the family I caught long time former training partner and club mate Stuart Hopkins, who was hoping for a time similar to mine – as he has done at each of the last five or six marathons we have run in together. Sweating somewhat (he’d suffered a cold before the race) I felt cool in comparison as I greeted him on passing with the somewhat negative comment I’m waiting for my hip to give up on me as he wished me well for the rest of the race.

At mile 11(?) of the marathon. Picture c/o Andy Atter(?)

Pained or not, the hip wasn’t slowing me for mile 11 saw me speed up to 5:56 (6:03 in 2016) and mile 12 was a 6:04 (6:07 in 2016). I was still for the most part feeling comfortable as we turned right and took on the legendary Tower Bridge. Like Greenwich, this most famous of spectator vantage points didn’t seem to be quite as densely populated or as vociferous in it’s support than in previous years. I’m guessing that spectators are making use of the excellent official spectators guide to visit previously less well populated areas that are just as good if all you want to do is pick out your loved one.

The fourth 5k at 20km was 19:06, As we went over the other side of the bridge we soon passed 13 miles – 6:02 compared to 6:12 in 2016. For the first time I looked left at the bottom of the bridge and spotted the unmissable sight of the Tower of London, which I had managed to miss on each of my ten or so visits to the London Marathon. Barely any time had passed before another significant time check came – halfway. My watch read 1:20:30 as I hit the chip mats. This was pretty much spot on for what I could have hoped for – it gave me a sporting chance of a sub 2:40 with a negative split run, or a very good chance of a new PB – my best being 2:43:41 set at Chester in 2015.

The 14th mile is the section where one side of the road is heading out to the Isle of Dogs, the other side is heading back towards the finish at 21 miles. It’s where I usually get to see some of the lead ladies and this year was no exception, although Mary Keitany was long gone by the time I arrived. Given the opportunity to see runners twice it is now one of the the most popular places to spectate – with crowds five or six deep for the entire mile or so stretch. Two who always get there early to grab prime real estate on the 21 mile side of the road are Kenilworth Runners legends Pauline and Tom Dable. Although I’m no longer a member of that Green Army, they spotted my GRC club colours and shouted me on with enthusiasm that couldn’t help but spur me on. Pumped with adrenaline mile 14 was a 5:59, exactly the same split as in 2016 but feeling much more comfortable as I took on my second Powergel washed down with a good helping of water.

One reason for feeling more comfortable is that the 15th mile for, I think, 4 of my last 5 marathons, has been the spot where I’ve had to call in to one of the roadside portaloos for an emergency pit stop. I’m happy to report that this year, aside from the odd exhale of extra exhaust fumes there was no gastronomic distress. Whether this was down to the reduced gel intake or the switch to granola bars from soft cereal bars, I’m not sure, but I’m not complaining either way. This meant that mile 15 was comfortably faster than in 2016 – 5:54 compared to 7:20. That fastest mile of the race meant that 20 – 25 km was (if my maths is correct) the fastest of the race in 18:54.

Just into the sixteenth mile is where we head into an underpass for the first time in the race, bearing right and into the Isle of Dogs. It’s where the Garmin can go haywire (It did indeed lose satellite reception) and where the legs have failed me on numerous occasions in the past. Thankfully on both accounts I had a positive outcome – the Garmin lost no more accuracy than it already had (it was now up to around a minute out) and my legs, although still with hip aching, were feeling good, bouncy, and very comfortable, certainly better than in 2016, where the pace was comparable, but I felt terrible.

Mile 16 was a 6:04 (6:03 in 2016). Miles 17-19 – around the Isle of Dogs and Canary Wharf – used to be one of the loneliest points of the course. Nowadays the crowds are immense, intense, and with the sounds of the screams and cheers reverberating around the closely packed skyscraper walls, quite overwhelming at times. Holding it all together, blessing every minute where I didn’t come to a screeching halt, mile 17 was a 6:03, mile 18 was 6:07, and mile 19 was 6:04, compared to 6:03, 6:12, and 5:56 in 2016. It should be said though these splits should be taken with a little pinch of salt as GPS accuracy is, putting it mildly, not the best around this part of the world – the GPS trail on Google maps showing a very jagged path rather than the smooth, controlled lines I was able to hold.

One runner who could not say the same as we passed through Canary Wharf was a poor chap ahead who had begun staggering violently from one side of the road to the other, and as I closed in was clearly in some kind of delirious state, frothing profusely at the mouth and seemingly not in control of his body. One runner went into offer assistance – a noble act indeed – but one I decided that today wasn’t the right choice for me considering a PB was in the making. Instead I alerted marshals just a little way up the road that there was a runner in distress. As I turned round a few seconds later and saw the hi-viz angels running towards the afflicted runner, I felt comfortable that he was in safer hands than I would be able to offer.

With that drama out of the way I pressed on, leaving Canary Wharf. I went through 30km in 1:54:24, the 5k split being 19:07. Shortly after this split, with continued development work taking place there is a rather contrived section of the course in place where we climb up a ramp, past a hotel, I think, then down onto the A1261 looping out and back on a road closed to traffic and spectators. It was here two years ago I blew up and it was here last year where I began to really suffer. Thankfully this year, although the right hip was nagging, I passed through the 20th mile in 2:01:15, without slowing, even perhaps speeding up as the Garmin clocked a 5:56 (6:11 in 2016).

The old saying that I hold dear is a marathon is a 20 mile jog with a 10k race tagged on at the end. Part one of this had been successfully accomplished. Despite passing through 20 miles over a minute faster than I’d ever run before, I’d felt as though almost all those miles were done with little perceived effort. As I sank down my third and final Powergel I was looking forward to putting on the afterburners for the final 10K, hopefully cranking up the pace to a glorious sub-2:40 finish.

Alas, almost literally a matter of meters past 20 miles, both quads gave the ominous feelings of deep fatigue. I didn’t feel as if my pace was slowing much, but the effort to maintain the same pace was now a whole lot harder. It also felt like at any moment the legs would quit on me, as they did in 2016 in the the 21st mile, when I slowed dramatically to run a 6:56 mile. Mile 21 was a 6:11. Mile 22 was hard, but it was a case of digging in and taking heart that while I was struggling, I was passing plenty of runners who were suffering like I was last year and the year before that.

Clocking another 6:11 (It was 6:50 in 2016), the 23rd mile was the hardest of the race. It’s the mile where you have the runners on the other side of the road just starting the second half of the race to the deafening support of thousands of spectators packing both sides of the large road. On the way out the road felt perfectly flat; now the tiniest undulations felt like monster climbs to negotiate. I battled on, praying that I could keep going, bemused at the sight ahead of a giant banana apparently running at 2:41 pace. I passed him, keeping an eye out for Tom and Pauline, who I spotted, but who missed me. I wasn’t aware of them, but apparently I’d missed my family shouting my name a couple of miles back. It’s hardly surprising given the cacophony all around me – there’d been numerous shouts of Go On Matt! or Matthew! which I’d turned to acknowledge, only to realise it was for a Matt or Matthew behind me. So perhaps one of those shouts was for me and I mistakenly ignored it.

I made it through Mile 23 – it was the slowest mile thus far at 6:22, but compared to the 7:27 in 2016 it was a very successful six minutes of running. I knew that what lay ahead was perhaps the most dangerous bit of road for my failing legs – the curved descent just past Tower Hill station down onto Lower Thames Street. If there was ever a stretch of road that would overpower the quads into a painful submission it would be here – it was at this spot in 2016 that I succumbed to the inevitable – stopping, before being annoyingly urged by the crowd to keep on going, which I did, albeit very slowly.

As I began gingerly descending, fully concentrated on not succumbing to cramp, I heard over my left shoulder the loudest shouts of Go on Matt! I think I’ve ever heard. The crowds were dense and it was hard to make out all the faces, but I spotted the unmistakable figures of friends and long time work colleagues James Moy and James ‘Beaver’ Bearne. I gave them the proverbial thumbs up and carried on. Moysee certainly was making his marathon spectating debut. They were there primarily to cheer home another F1 friend Will Buxton, who was expecting to take over 5 hours to finish his first ever marathon. That they had made the effort to leave the pub to watch me pass renewed my vigour and determination to battle hard to the finish.

I made it down to the bottom of the ramp in one piece, passing through the 35km marker in 2:13:49 clocking a 19:26 5k. It’s not long after here you head under the dreaded long and lonely underpass where nothing exists except other suffering runners. It was here I decided that I’d take a bit of risk by attempting to push on through the discomfort. My rationale at the time was I reckoned that I if I could get another quick mile or two in the bag, even if I slowed horribly and clocked an 8 or 9 minute mile at the finish, I would still bag a sub 2:45 performance.

Exiting the underpass, spurred on by the crowds and loud music up the drag and onto the embankment, I drove on. Mile 24 I clocked at 6:07, and mile 25 approaching Big Ben at 6:16. They weren’t the fastest miles of the race but the fact I’d reversed the trend of slowing miles gave me a tremendous morale boost, especially as I had etched on my mind the same miles in 2016 took an agonising 8:59 and 8:26. I went through 40km in 2:33:24. The 35k to 40k split was the slowest of the race in 19:35, but I sensed that the bad patch I’d gone through was long gone, and with nearly 12 minutes in hand to run just over 2km, one of the key objectives of a sub-2:45 clocking was looking very likely.

Turning right onto Birdcage Walk I apparently missed my family cheering me once again. By now, although heavily fatigued, the adrenaline was pumping and I began a very long mile and a bit sprint to the finish. The rather excellent personalised stats on Runpix show that on the final 7.2k I passed 84 runners and was passed by just two. This is the dream runners dream of when racing a marathon, finishing strong, picking off runners and feeding off that to drive yourself on not necessarily faster and faster, but not getting slower and slower.

I passed the 800 meters to go banner and picked up the effort once more. There is no 26 mile marker on the course but my watch had clocked it some time earlier (it ended up registering 26.57 miles) as a 6:04 mile (It was 7:47 in 2016). Turning right passing Buckingham Palace it was a welcome sight to see the cones that they have out for the elite finishers still in place. Ushered into the middle lane I turned right into the Mall and saw the official clocking reading something like 2:41:00. Already running hard I summoned every last ounce of energy for the mother of all sprint finishers, According to the Strava segment I ran the last 385 yards in 56 seconds, which is 5:20 pace. I’d run the last 0.6 mile on my Garmin at 5:44 pace.

As I crossed the line I looked to the sky and thanked the running gods for seeing me to the finish line in one piece. I’d broken 2:42 on the official clock, and I knew that my chip time would be a few seconds faster. It was. My official time, already posted on the brilliant London Marathon app for all those who followed me to see, was 2:41:42! A new PB by as near as dammit two minutes! I pumped my fists and whooped in elation – something of a rarity for one who is usually fairly composed at the finish.

It was a good job I had my sunglasses on for I recall I got a little too emotional at the finish, not exactly blubbing away, but certainly the eyes got a little moist. The culmination of months, years of training, the stress at the start and the uncertainty whether I’d make it to the finish was a little overwhelming. Then reality kicked in. The legs, fueled on adrenaline to surge me nearly pain free to the finish, found themselves bereft of adrenaline and began to really hurt! Last year I found this pain utterly dejecting, this year I nothing was going to spoil my delight as I gratefully received my goodie bag and medal, posing for official photographs that I had no intention of purchasing as they are stupidly expensive.

Part 4 – The Aftermath

The first familiar face to greet me after the race was fellow club mate Rob McArdle. After the congratulations and very concise post race review, he took a post race picture to replace the one I wouldn’t purchase, and we spent a few minutes charting the progress of other GRC runners. Not long after leaving him and wearily collecting my kit bag, Stuart caught me up. He had run 2:50, not what he’d hoped for but highly commendable given his restricted preparations for the race. We chatted about the race, training, duathlons, as we wandered slowly and painfully to the K-L repatriation area, where I was enthusiastically greeted by my daughter, then my wife – who knew that this would be a more congenial afternoon than 12 months earlier.

Me at the end of the marathon.
Picture c/o Robert McArdle.

Changing trainers proved nearly impossible, I had to call upon the services of my wife to assist. I didn’t bother with much else other than putting on my tracksuit bottoms. This meant that as we left the marathon building my medal and race number were on full view. This wasn’t a deliberate attempt to garner attention, but it is incredible how many people, even hours after the race would congratulate me on my efforts. It’s days like these when you are reminded that 99.9% of the world are good, decent folk – a shame then that it was sadly necessary for the security at the finish to be evidently ridiculously high – possibly one of most locked down places on the planet at that moment.

My daughter and I at the end of the marathon.

In previous years I have hung around the Covent Garden area after the race for a celebration / wake. This year I was calling on the local knowledge of my brother who, after we finally got on a tube train after some confusion at Charing Cross, took us to a pub in Chalk Farm, near where he and his fiance used to live. It was a bit of a trek and my weary legs didn’t thank him at first, but from the sight and smells of the giant roast dinners put in front of us it was well worth the walk. I though, as usual after a marathon, couldn’t stomach the thought of food, and was happy to have just a few chips from my daughters’ plate. I did patake in a welcome pint or two of cider as I caught up with the exploits of all the others I knew taking part in the marathon and replied to the numerous congratulatory messages on Facebook and Strava.

Post race marathon medal and pint of cider.

After the meal we walked down to Camden Town, taking in some stunning views of London en route at Primrose Hill – we could see most of the sights I had passed during the marathon a few hours earlier. A walk through Camden Town itself was a nostalgia trip from twenty years or more ago when I was a near weekly visitor to its market. The walk from Camden to Kings Cross nearly killed me and my daughter but in the long run I think the 3-4 miles walk did wonders to help ease the pain in the legs.

Enjoying Primrose Hill.

At Kings Cross we bid farewell to my brother and fiance and got on the first train to Stevenage, before my wife drove us home back to Grantham. Too tired to consider cooking and eating alone after my better half had basically eaten a whole chicken for lunch, I ordered a large Indian takeaway, my first in many many months. It tasted bloody good as we sat down to watch the recorded live coverage of the race. I made it to around 22 miles of the ladies race before I resigned myself to not being able to stay awake and headed to bed. All in all a most memorable day, a highly successful one. One that won’t be forgotten.

Stats:

Official Results and Splits
Garmin Mile Splits
RunPixStats 1
RunPixStats 2Virgin Mon