Category: Runs and Races

A little over two weeks ago, at this time, I was making my way across Rhossili beach towards the second checkpoint of a race I’d been thinking about for nearly a year. As my life had been taken over with a cancer diagnosis and subsequent treatment last autumn, I’d become fixated on the need to mark my 50th birthday with an ultra. The Gower Ultra Bach from Run Walk Crawl ticked all the boxes: local, so easy logistics; relatively familiar; organised by people I know and trust, and the perfect date, just a week before my birthday.

The morning of the race, when it finally arrived, felt almost surreal. I had put so much of my recovery into preparing that it was hard to believe I was actually there, in Mumbles cricket club, surrounded by runners and race crew, getting ready to run. The whole country was under weather warnings that day, so it was with considerable relief that we all saw the sun come up and the sky stay clear as the coach took us to the start line at Weobley Castle on the North Gower coast. Although that relief would be tempered by the gale force winds we would have to contend with.

This was, without a doubt, the best start line I have ever experienced, like a miniature Dragon’s Back as we gathered in the castle ruins ready for the off. I was there with two very old friends, Adrian and Simon, both of whom are far better and more experienced runners than I am, and would prove to be my anchors throughout the race, in more senses than one. At 9:30 on the dot we fought through the wind tunnel that was the castle gate and across the fields to the coastline, straight into a headwind gusting at 60mph.

In many ways this was to be the story of the day, a stunningly beautiful route and extremely challenging conditions. This first stage, running into the wind, took me along a section of Gower that I hadn’t explored before: with salt marshes stretching out across the Loughor estuary to my right and rolling hills to the left, the views, when I was able to look at them, were glorious. It was both exhilarating and exhausting, every step forward a battle, sapping far more energy than I’d expected to use so early on.

My first aim for the day was to get to the second checkpoint at Rhossili, knowing that shortly after that we would turn onto the south coast and have the wind behind us. But before the checkpoint was the three mile stretch of Rhossili Bay beach, its golden sands blown like ribbons around our feet as we ran. Somehow the wind felt slightly less here, as if we were sheltered by the bay, and with the sand damp and firm underfoot this was by far the most runnable section so far. This was also the section where we picked up an extra companion when Simon found a football that he would end up carrying and kicking all the way to the finish line; it turns out having a companion who is functioning well enough to have a kick around when you’re down to your final reserves is remarkably motivating!

After a quick pit stop at the checkpoint we went back out into the wind towards Worm’s Head and then, finally, turned the corner to head along the south coast with the wind behind us. I’m not sure that this actually made things any easier, given that I was now being blown forward so strongly that I was running whether I wanted to or not, but psychologically it was much better. We’d been on the go for around two and a half hours now, we were well over a quarter of the way round, and I felt like I was on top of my fuelling. Barring a growing need for a cup of tea, this was probably the section that I most enjoyed. The rugged cliffs and numerous small bays between Rhossili and Port Eynon make for a particularly beautiful and technical section of coastal path, and the crashing waves and bits of sea foam being blown all the way up the cliffs to whip before our faces only added to the atmosphere.

Port Eynon was the half way mark for the race, so we made full use of this checkpoint to have a break with a cup of tea and plenty to eat. It was also the point where the race started to change for me, and the battle became less about the elements and more about keeping going. I was still running sections (just), still keeping a fairly good hold of my fuelling, but by the time we were trying to run on Oxwich beach it was clear that the final 12 miles or so were going to be an endurance challenge, the only aim now to finish, whatever it took.

I had made two kit choices before the race that would turn out to be crucial aspects of why I was able to get to the end: running poles, and gaiters. Unlike Rhossili beach, the sand at Oxwich was soft and dry, desperately hard to move on when my legs were already so tired. Having poles to help hold me up, and gaiters to stop my shoes filling up with sand, made the difference between keeping going and having to stop, especially on the well-named ‘Dune of Doom’ leading up to Pennard castle.

I had also made a fairly late change to aqua-gels, following a couple of sessions in the gym analysing my metabolic rate at rest and whilst exercising. These sessions gave an amazing insight into exactly how much fuel my body uses in different states, and helped me think about fuelling much more strategically than I’ve done on previous races. The aqua-gels helped me to maintain my fuelling even when I’d hit the point of struggling to eat, and I’d held on to the last one to power me up that evil sand dune. It worked, although I wish I’d remembered that there were two more gels inside my pack.

There were a few more dunes to go before we topped out above Three Cliffs just as the sun was setting. The wind was calmer, and the golden light was a balm to my aching body as we headed into the final checkpoint at Southgate. We were joined along that path by some of Simon’s family, whose support and encouragement was wonderful. And then, as the last light of the sun was fading, two figures appeared on the path ahead of us and materialised into Chris and Tomos, my husband and son. They timed it perfectly as I had very little left in me by then, yet there they were to help sort out my head torch and try and get a few mouthfuls of sandwich into me. They walked with us for a little while, then headed off to the car as we turned down towards Caswell Bay.

This was the final drag, from Caswell to Langland and then onto the headland and back up to the cricket club. Only three miles or so, yet those moonlit miles were the longest I have ever done. All I could do was keep Adrian and Simon in sight and keep putting one foot in front of the other. I nearly wobbled in the last mile, but I had enough left in me to know that getting rescued would take a lot longer than just keeping going, so on I went. I had no real idea where I was, or how we were going to approach the finish line, so to have Adrian suddenly say ‘there it is’ was an unexpected joy. We came round the corner and down to the finish line to find a little crowd of friends and family cheering, waving banners and giving us a wonderful finish.

And then it was over. After all the months of training and planning, and nearly 12 hours of moving, it was finally done. I don’t think my body really knew what to do with itself, it had been telling me to stop for so long that I’m not sure it believed I’d actually listened at last, and I found myself needing to lie down with my knees up for while until my breathing came back under control and I was able to sit up and look around. My main memory of that moment is of being gently teased, and of feeling safe and happy with the people around me, knowing that I’d done what I’d set out to do.

Looking back at it now, I can see both where I made mistakes and where my strategies worked. Getting the poles out early on was a wise move, as was setting up a half hourly alarm on my watch to remind me to eat (even if I couldn’t hear it for the first few hours over the howling wind). The gels were a revelation, enabling me to keep fuelling even when food was starting to be a struggle, and my kit kept me warm and comfortable all day. But I could have done with carrying less real (heavy) food and more gels, and remembering where I’d put them all would have helped too. I also need to think about how I carry water, as allowing the bladder to run almost dry then refilling it at the halfway point meant that I was suddenly carrying an extra 1.5 kg just as I was starting to flag, which was not my best decision.

For all that running is an individual act, I know that I would not even have reached the start line without the help and support of so many others, from my family encouraging and believing in me, to my wonderful running buddies who trained with me and the brilliant guys at Aspire Fitness whose advice was invaluable. There is no doubt in my mind that I would not have finished were it not for Adrian and Simon. The simple fact of their presence, the security that provided, and their belief that we would finish enabled me to carry on long past the point where I might otherwise have quit. They kept going, so I did too.

I am delighted that I finished, and also very relieved that it is over. From the moment I finished radiotherapy I had been entirely focused on completing this race, which in hindsight probably meant I started pushing distance far sooner than I should have done. It worked, but it’s time for a rest now. No plans for a while, just some gentle strength work and little runs that I can enjoy with no pressure. I’ll be itching to book something soon enough I’m sure, this quiet time now is the reward for finishing, and I am definitely going to make the most of it.

Kit notes:

• Black Diamond Distance Carbon FLZ Poles were light and easy to use.
• Inov8 All Terrain Gaiters kept the sand out of my shoes far more successfully than I expected.
• High 5 Aqua Gels were actually palatable (a first for me with gels), and made keeping on top of fuelling significantly easier than I’ve found on previous races.

This time last week I was on my way to catch a train to Abergavenny, all set for a women’s trail running weekend that had come very close to not happening. After a few weeks of planning and research last autumn, I had finally booked myself and a friend onto a guided mountain weekend in the Black Mountains organised by Element Active. And then the next day I was diagnosed with breast cancer. Over the following months, through all the appointments, operations and treatment that followed, I had that date fixed in my mind, sometimes as a goal, sometimes as a hope, and more than once as a pipe dream that seemed unlikely to come true. To say I was excited to actually be fit and well enough to go is a significant understatement.

Having been picked up with two other attendees at Abergavenny train station, we arrived at Longtown Outdoor Learning Centre at the far eastern edge of the Black Mountains. I had a flutter of nervousness at this point, surrounded by strangers and with a couple of hours to go until my friend arrived. But I needn’t have worried; I was very clearly going to be surrounded by women of a roughly similar age, with a similar desire to get into the hills and away from everything else for a couple of days. Many had been on these weekends before, some multiple times, and our leader, Ruth Pickvance, expertly ensured that everyone was welcomed and included from the moment we stepped inside.

Longtown, as the name suggests, is a long, thin village that winds its way up a low ridge at the foot of the Black Mountains. We had the chance to explore it before dinner, with a walk to the old chapel, the ruins of a Norman motte and bailey castle, and along the river bank through the wild garlic and the last of the bluebells. It was a stunningly beautiful evening, the first swifts of the year darting above us, which promised well for the coming days. As did the delicious evening meal.

Saturday morning dawned bright and early, with instructions to be gathered in the den by 8 am, breakfasted and ready to go. This was going to be a long day out on the hill, with options to run or walk in both the morning and afternoon as we were all gathering together for lunch. The sensible part of me, given my fitness level, had planned to run in the morning and then walk later on. But then we were given the route, up the Cat’s Back ridge onto the Black Hill, lunch at a sheep fold at the head of the Olchon Valley, then on to Offa’s Dyke path and along that ridge before heading back down to the valley. Roughly 10k for each section, and with a clear plan to take it gently, there was no way I was going to miss the chance at a good descent, so it looked like I was running both sections.

The first part of the run was glorious, along the river then across fields to reach the foot of the Cat’s Back. I’d walked the ridge last year so had some idea what to expect, and knew that once we started the ascent this would be the perfect opportunity to try out my new running poles. I have Black Diamond Distance Carbon FLZ poles, which were light in my pack, quick and easy to set up, and made a huge difference on the pull up to the summit ridge. One of the joys of the Black Mountains is the long ridges, so once you’re up you can run for miles on gently undulating terrain. The ridge up to the Black Hill trig point was an absolute joy, a proper rocky ridge that gently gave way to peat and heather, with views right across to the Malverns and beyond. As we gathered back together at the trig point, there was an option to go on to Hay Bluff before doubling back to the lunch spot, but I knew I was flagging and needed a break, so I went with the other group to find the old sheep fold and have a good long rest.

As we sat and ate our lunch in the sunshine the rest of the runners and the walking group all joined us, ready to refuel and regroup. The next stretch would see all of us starting out together, heading across country to hit Offa’s Dyke on the next ridge, then running south for a few miles before we hit our descent path. This section was far busier than the morning as it turned out we were there on the day of the Longtown Mountain Rescue challenge, so the path was fairly full of runners and walkers on the various challenge routes. Fortunately, that section of Offa’s Dyke is so well trodden that the path is wide, easy, and flagged in places, with plenty of space for all.

This section was hard work by the end, I could well and truly feel that I was significantly pushing my distance and my energy levels were starting to flag. Looking around me at the others, I don’t think I was the only one, all of us a little sapped by the heat and the miles. We’d become quite strung out along the path, so when the time came to head down we all gathered together again before starting the descent. This, for me, was the highlight of a wonderful weekend, a long, steep, diagonal path coming off the ridge all the way down to the valley floor. It is a long time since I had the opportunity to do a long descent, and I really didn’t know how it would go given my lack of practice, but it was superb. My body knew what to do, how to relax into it, how to balance, and my mind knew not to think, to work by instinct and by trusting myself. I felt as if I was flying down it, back in my element in a moment of pure joy.

I suspect I was running on fumes after that, but the adrenaline was enough to get me back to the centre for some much needed tea and cake. Multiple cups of tea, in fact, and fairly continuous grazing, until we all gathered back together to head down to the local pub for dinner. It had been an incredible day, wonderful running in a stunning landscape, and all with some great company.

Sunday was a gentler day, a slightly later start and a shorter session, with lunch back at the centre. This time, the challenge was a navigational one, as we were given maps marked with checkpoints, and 3.5 hours in which to reach as many as we could. We were on our own for this one, or in groups if we wanted, and I was very relieved that the friend I’d come with was as happy as I was to just walk, using the checkpoints as a way to explore that other side of the valley, away from the hills. We were joined by a third walker for what turned into a 7 mile hike through fields, over a small hill, into woodland, and finally past the shop (it sold ice creams!) back to the centre. Where the previous day had been about gently pushing myself and enjoying the mountain environment, this day was about team work, choosing our route and navigating our way around it. Given the miles we managed to cover, it was such a relaxed morning, chatting most of the way as we walked with the wonderful camaraderie that spending time together in the outdoors brings.

And then we were nearly done. A last gathering of us all to swap stories as we ate, then it was time to gather our things and say goodbye. I’ve come away from it feeling fitter, healthier, more relaxed, and more confident. And full of admiration for Ruth and her team for laying on such a brilliantly empowering weekend.

In the last 18 months I had started three races and completed one, so I really had something to prove to myself yesterday as I joined the start line on a cold, grey morning in Margam Park. This race had been on my mind all year as one where I know some of the route fairly well, and one which I actually had a chance of finishing. I am delighted to say that it did not disappoint.

The race was exactly the kind of event that works best for me: fairly small, extremely well organised, with a beautiful route that took us from parkland up into the hills and forests above Port Talbot on woodland paths and forestry tracks. There were fallen trees to deal with, stepping stones across a small stream, muddy sections and wonderful, grassy slopes. On a clear day I’m sure there are fabulous views too, although yesterday was an atmospheric autumnal day, the colours muted by the cloud.

It was also really hard. Over 2000ft of elevation turns out to be quite hard going, with the middle section between miles 6 and 9 particularly taxing. Uphill all the way for three miles, and by this point I was aware of having become completely disorientated. The weather conditions played a part in this, the lack of any view making it difficult to place myself in the wider landscape. There was also the fact that I was determined to treat this as the race it was, so wasn’t stopping regularly to look at maps and think about my environment, meaning that I didn’t give myself the chance to look around and orientate myself.

On top of all this, there was the fact that the course was so excellently marked out. This is clearly a very good thing; at no point did I have to pause and consider my route, I just followed the markers and was able to focus on getting myself round rather than route finding. I trusted it, managing not to listen to the little voice in my head wondering where exactly I was, and that trust paid off by finishing in exactly the time I’d hoped for.

I came in at 3 hours 27 seconds with my gorgeous nieces running in beside me. I’d clearly given the race everything I had as I crossed the finish line unable to speak or move any further. Luckily I was surrounded by the most wonderful friends and family who held me in every sense, got me seated, and handed me a hot chocolate that fairly quickly had me functioning again. It was the perfect end to a race that had given me some much needed head space, to find myself drawn back into the world by the care and kindness of the people around me.

As little as a month ago I might have been slightly disappointed with that finishing time; I was doing a lot of running and feeling fairly fit and strong. Then life threw one of its curve balls at me as I received a diagnosis of breast cancer. Amidst the shock and fear that that diagnosis inevitably brings, I am aware of feeling very lucky, and profoundly grateful. I’m told that it is small, low grade and early, the best possible words to hear at a difficult time. I have been swept up into the NHS system where every person I have met has been kind and caring, no one has rushed me, and everyone has moved to make this process as quick and straightforward as possible. The cushion of support I have around me, from family, friends and professionals, is incredible and humbling in equal measure.

It is quite disorientating (that word again) to feel so lucky and cared for while also feeling full of anger, frustration and fear. I am conscious that I am going to lose my sense of self for a while as surgery and radiotherapy put running and the gym out of reach. Not for long, but long enough. These are my safe places, the places outside home where I can regulate myself and give my mind the chance to calm itself. To know I won’t be able to do that at a time when I might need it most is daunting. So I’m making plans, finding routes and even a race that I can aim for next year when this is all behind me. I may crawl into my shell for a little while, but I know that there are people around me, just as there were at the finish line yesterday, who will hold me up until I can stand on my own again.

I won’t have time for another long run before surgery and all that follows, which made me even more determined to get round yesterday. It was the perfect race to finish on, setting me up ready for more of the same in the new year. Now it’s time to focus on some other fun things, as I’ll be doing my Christmas socialising early this year. I think I can even justify a pre-December mince pie or two, just this once.

Shortly after 10 o’clock this morning I stood at the side of a road that usually roars with traffic, but today the road rang with the sound of over twenty thousand runners. Cardiff Half Marathon has become a huge event, filling the city with athletes from all over the world, and a ‘must do’ for thousands of local runners. The course takes in plenty of the city’s highlights, from the castle to the bay, and up round Roath Park. And most of the course is lined with spectators, many looking out for their friends and family members, others just there to enjoy the atmosphere. All of them are out to offer support and encouragement to the runners.

My chosen viewing point today was towards the end of Penarth Road, so on a nice, long straight, where I should be able to spot as many people I knew as possible. I’d got there nice and early, so was in place ready to see the elite group come flying by at their barely comprehensible speed. That opening group was small, but the following groups weren’t far behind, and the numbers of runners was steadily growing and growing. As the groups grew in size to a crowd, I experienced something I’ve never experienced before: the footfall now was so fast and so plentiful that I could feel it through the ground beneath my feet. Their pace as they sped past pulsed through me and took my breath away.

That moment passed as the crowd grew ever larger, too many now to run in unison. The runners filled the road and spread out onto the pavements, and they just kept coming. I saw people I knew, and mostly managed to shout in time to wave and see them respond. Having been on the receiving end of those calls, I know what a boost even a fleeting glimpse can give. Standing there alone today, I realised how that boost works both ways.

After nearly an hour of spectating I had to head home, but there was still no sign of the runners tailing off. I thought I had an idea of what twenty thousand people looks like, but I was clearly way off the mark. I walked home full of awe and pride at what was being achieved out there on the streets of my adopted city. So many people coming together with the same goal, to run 13.1 miles to the best of their ability. For many of those running (though not all), their finishing time will have been a hugely important part of the day. But for most of us watching, it means very little. The bit that matters is seeing all these people entirely focused on one thing, seeing the commitment on their faces as they run past, seeing the emotions play out before us. Knowing that every clap or cheer helps to motivate someone, whether we know them or not. The crowd of individuals becomes a thumping whole.

This is humanity at its best, a coming together of thousands of people to achieve a goal that is at once intensely personal yet also communal. We all benefit from these races, whether we run or not, through the sense of community and camaraderie they bring. They challenge what we think is possible. Nothing changes our own goal posts quite like watching someone else achieve something they weren’t sure they could do.

So will I be signing up next year? Not a chance! I know from experience how badly I cope with being in large crowds of people, and there is no chance of standing at the side in a quiet spot if you’re out there running it. I headed out a few hours later for a solitary run in what had become, by then, a fairly significant downpour. It was just what I needed. But I spent large parts of the run thinking about what I’d witnessed this morning, both on the course and through the tracking system afterwards. It gave me the motivation to keep going, and kept me smiling.

My own half marathon is a few weeks away yet, and will be a very different race: hills, trails, probably plenty of mud, and far fewer people. It will be perfect for me, but I will hold in my mind the memory of all those thousands running together, and let that inspiration help to carry me forward.

The ascent was brutal, immediately out of the starting field onto the steep grind up to the top of Birks, 1,300 ft of elevation in that first mile alone. It would have been hard in any circumstances, but I knew that and had been training for it. What I wasn’t prepared for was the awful humidity coming up through the bracken, and for my body to decide that this was the time to hit me with my first full-blown hot flush. The combination left me fighting waves of nausea, which could only be controlled by slowing down to a virtual crawl.

Luckily I wasn’t alone. Another runner was struggling in the same way, so we paired up and kept each other going as we crested Birks and moved out of the humidity into blissful cloud and breezes. But the nausea wasn’t done with either of us yet, and after a respite over St Sunday’s it came back in waves as we climbed to the top of Fairfield. Slowing down with lots of pauses saw us through, but the clock was ticking and the cut off at the Kirkstone check point was starting to look more and more like a dream.

The next section was a joy as we trotted down Fairfield and over Hart Crag and Dove Crag: perfect mountain running terrain and I was starting to feel properly good for the first time this race. Chris and Tomos were waiting on the slopes of Dove Crag, just the boost I needed, and as we made our way down to Scandale Pass I started to let myself think that we might actually make the cut off. Which is where my lack of local knowledge really showed, as we arrived at the foot of Red Screes with just eight minutes in which to run 1.5 miles with 800ft of elevation. An impossible task, so this was the moment when I fully accepted that my race was over.

In the immediate aftermath of the race my overriding feeling was despondency. I had given this race everything, but it hadn’t been enough. I didn’t have the energy to go over what had gone wrong, couldn’t face thinking about the future, and could quite happily have gone to bed and hidden from the world for the foreseeable future. Happily, a couple of days later I’ve slept well and am no worse for wear, barring legs covered in midge and horsefly bites and a considerable dent in my pride. So now is the time to take stock and consider both what went wrong and how to fix it:

1. More hill training would have made that initial elevation easier. The hill work I did was good, but I should have started it months earlier. That’s an easy lesson learnt.
2. How do I deal with heat and nausea better? This is what finished me off, and it felt on the day as if it was entirely unavoidable. But I know that there are bits of kit that might be worth looking into, cold towels/buffs etc, so some research and practice there is needed.
3. On a related note, that hot flush was a significant contributory factor in my overheating, and I know far less than I should about how to manage them in the moment. Can I reduce the likelihood at all, or see it coming before it hits? Can I double-patch on race day if needed? Lots of research needed here.
4. Timing. A major race on the first weekend of the summer holidays worked logistically for my family, but it’s been a tough year, and that psychological need for an ending and time to rest and recover clashes badly with gearing up to a race. I need to think about my own state of mind when I book a race, not just logistics.
5. Am I booking the right races? Do I even want to be doing races at all? I love running in the mountains, doing routes that demand I use my hands to scramble over multiple peaks. But doing these routes as races adds a whole other dimension of time pressure, and at this moment in my life I need everything to go absolutely perfectly in order to meet the cut offs. And when does everything ever go absolutely perfectly?

Perhaps this is my biggest take away from the event, that the runs I love the most don’t have to be the races I usually choose. I like having the odd race to focus on, but they do not have to be the pinnacle of what I’m aiming to do with my running. The runs that make me happiest are hard to access from Cardiff, there are no rocky mountains on my doorstep here. But there are rolling hills, forestry tracks and coastal paths that are nearly as good, and no lack of races on all of them. So I have a plan for the next 12 months: some local races, that I have a better chance of actually completing, and which will keep me moving well, ready for the mountain running I love when the opportunity arises.

I am still disappointed with how it went, and my pride could certainly do with the boost of entering a race I have a chance of completing, but all of that is actually ok. I’m still here, still running, and looking forward to finding out what overly ambitious race I’m going to put myself into next year!

When I signed up for this race back in March I was looking for a focus, something to help get my running back to some semblance of a routine after a fairly dreadful start to the year. I would love to say that’s what happened, but life just isn’t that straight forward, and my running routine still hasn’t materialised in the way I’d hoped. But last year’s ultra was still in my legs, and in my brain, and I crept the miles up enough to get myself to the start line this morning after all.

One of the most unexpected benefits of running an ultra is the change in perspective it leaves you with. I was under no illusions as to how hard today would be given my minimal training, but I found myself able to hold two seemingly disparate thoughts in my mind at once: it was going to be hard, and I knew I could do it without breaking myself.

That confidence is almost as hard to articulate as it is to find, buried deep inside under the doubts and the questions. Nor can it be too loud a voice, when there is still hard work to be done and a body to prepare. But taking away the doubt, having a carefully considered answer to the fears and questions, these were of immeasurable value as the race drew closer. By the time I walked to the start line this morning I had a huge grin on my face, bouncing with excitement, about to run a race with my sister for the first time.

The route itself was ideal: relatively flat around the lake for the first mile, then a fairly sharp pull up to the ridge line to reach gently undulating forestry and trails before a final, exhilarating descent. The weather was very much in our favour: sunny but not too hot, with a good breeze to keep us cool. The downside of the lovely weather was the lack of good muddy sections, although I tried to make up for that by getting tangled in a rather large branch and coming to a stop face down on the trail. No harm done, just a few bruises and a mouthful of dirt. And a bit of dent in my pride!

With checkpoints at 3, 6 and 9 miles, and encouraging words at each, the miles flew by. Before we knew it we were past 11 miles, with a lovely long downhill to see us in to the finish. So we relaxed a little more and enjoyed the adrenaline, right up to the moment where the path had shrunk to a very tiny track with a ditch and an old, barbed wire fence in the way. Clearly this wasn’t right. Somehow we had missed the (very clear!) markers that sent the route off to the left, leaving us trudging back up that lovely descent wondering where we’d gone wrong and trying not to feel guilty about the two other runners who’d followed our lead. Lesson learnt there, never rely on anyone else’s route finding! Fortunately we’d added less than half a mile, and had enough of the descent left to thoroughly enjoy the final mile.

I crossed the finish line side by side with my sister, full of the absolute joy that a great run can bring, and knowing that I’d been able to share that with her added a whole extra layer to that joy. I don’t do races very often, so they need to be special to make me commit to it. A beautiful route, a great event team, and my sister to run with very definitely made for a special one today.

A little over a week ago I was getting ready for a double first: a night time hill run, and a fell race, neither of which I’d done before. As the time to leave for the Night Sugar came nearer my nerves kicked in in a way I was completely unprepared for, after all, it was far from my first hill run, and at this time of year night running is a weekly event. Why was this so different?

The clue might be in the word ‘race’. After nearly 10 years running my race tally is still in single figures. The ritual of picking up the race number and fiddling with pins, the crowd of people at the start line, the pre race briefing; these still feel like a world I’m floating on the edge of, not quite part of it yet. The nervous excitement builds in those final moments as the crowd comes closer together, watches beeping, legs twitching. And then, at last, comes ‘Go!’, all that tension finds an outlet and I’m back in my comfort zone: running.

My nerves vanished in an instant. With lovely, soft grass under foot, and somewhere in the darkness the Sugarloaf looming over us, I was out doing something I’d had in mind for years: a proper fell race. I’m fairly confident in the hills, these are the places that call to me, the places that feel like home. But in the dark, running by torchlight? That’s a whole other experience.

However bright the headtorch (and I’m very happy with my Petzl Iko Core), the colour is still leeched out of the landscape, even from the spots where the light shines brightest. This doesn’t really matter in the city, when a headtorch is more about safety from other road users, but out in the hills, away from all the city lights, that lack of colour matters. The ground looks smoother, the undulations harder to spot, making running downhill significantly more demanding as it is so much harder to judge what your feet are going to land on. There’s a strange beauty to it though, this calm, gently greyed world.

Navigation is harder too. That feels like a blindingly obvious statement when talking about night running, but it wasn’t the lack of visual markers that surprised me. What I hadn’t anticipated was how hard it was to judge where I was without the rest of the landscape visible as a guide. I’d studied the route, I knew how the course should feel as it curved and changed direction on its journey around the mountain. But other than when we actively turned off a path, I couldn’t feel the curve or straightness of the route as I ran. With only a short distance visible ahead at any moment, the path was nearly always straight. Only I knew it wasn’t. Disorientation could have set in very easily, but luckily for all of us who were running, the course was brilliantly marked out with reflective markers at regular intervals, and marshals in the few places where a wrong turn was possible.

Once I settled in to trusting the course and adjusting my gait and perspective for the lack of light, the race became an absolute joy. I ran over half of it with my running partner, each of us encouraging the other on the seemingly endless ascent where every marker that appeared in the darkness was higher than the last. Eventually we found one that was slightly lower, then another lower still, and we separated as the descent really kicked in. My confidence had kicked in by now, and those last couple of miles running on my own down a mountain in the dark were mesmerizing. The world had shrunk to just that little circle of light, the thickening dew beneath my feet a sign of the shrinking temperature as the night wore on and the cold air filled my lungs. The wind that had buffeted us near the top had died away, leaving me alone on a beautifully still night, only the sound of my feet and my breath disturbing the peace. It was almost a shock to realise that I could hear the sound of people ahead of me, then as I rounded the final corner the lights of the finish line and the car park brought me back to the busy world of a race.

I won’t deny a tinge of regret as I left that brief moment of peaceful, still solitude behind. But it was only a little tinge. That race was a first for ten of us from Run Grangetown, and there is something very special about experiencing these things together for the first time. And I suppose that encapsulates so much of what is good about racing: a group activity, that each individual undertakes in their own way, and at their own pace.

My first fell race certainly won’t be my last. I might even think about actually racing it one of these days, although there’ll be some work to be done to make that a realistic prospect. But either way, combining my favourite type of running with an event that pushes me out of my comfort zone must surely be a positive move forward.