This was my first ultra of the year, and the first proper one (maps instead of laps) I’d run in ages. Now in all the pre-race information there was a specific route to follow – the Oldham Way (clue in the title), and the procedure for navigating was to follow the way-markers, supplemented by the issued map to CP1. At CP2 you’d get your next map and so on. They also issued the GPX trace which I stuck on my watch just in case. But then at the start, in the race briefing we were told that the route was only suggested, and that as long as you hit the checkpoints you’d be ok. At that point though it was too late to do much other than follow the route.

So at 0730 we set off from the Castleshaw Centre into the fog, and I quickly found myself at the front with a couple of guys, and we had a bit of a chat as we plodded along. We broke away a bit from the rest of the pack, which was a bit worrying so early on, but the pace felt ok so I just went with it. Then after a couple of miles, we saw the rest of the runners cut across in front of us, having taken a different route, dumping us right at the back. I was certain we were on the correct route, and we worked our way back to the front again. Then, somehow, the three of us managed to take another wrong turn. We realised, and backtracked to meet the next group behind us, who swore blind we were going the right way as they’d recce’d the route. We trusted them and plodded on for half a mile in the wrong direction before turning back and re-joining the route we were heading back to anyway, and within a few minutes had caught up everyone else and were at the back again. At this point I gave up on the Garmin trace. I think it must’ve been done on an online map rather than on the ground, because it was so often really far out, and the turns on the trace weren’t even close to the actual trails. I also decided to stop listening to or following anyone else and just rely on the map.

The other two broke away a bit, so I hit CP1 on my own in third place, but shortly after met them again as they’d taken a wrong turn. There seemed to be a lot of that going on.

The three of us were back in front heading for Tandle Hill and CP2, when we noticed the pack behind of us disappear and go another way. I was sure we were going the right way, but shortly after that the other two broke off to the right, I think looking for a shorter route. I had a sense the CP was close so I just carried on, and just as I was starting to question whether it was even remotely possible that I was the only one going the right way, I spotted CP2 through the trees. While I was there getting my card stamped I spotted the other two passing about half a mile away to the right. I did the right thing, blowing my whistle and waving my arms to get their attention, but they didn’t hear me and just kept going.

I trotted on, and then a mile or so down the road they came up behind me. I asked if they’d gone through the CP and they hadn’t. One of them pretty much fell apart, deciding to drop, despite me trying to convince him an extra 15 mins running to the CP and back over 40 miles is sod all versus a DQ. The other guy, Dave, just decided to carry on anyway. Like me, he was doing this as a training run for something else, so he was happy to just run on. Dave and I were in front from that point on.

The going had been ok up to that point, a bit hilly, some moorland, farmland and muddy fields, and a few steep sections, but nothing so punishing that it had me worried for later on. Then we dropped down onto the canal for the flattish middle section of the race. I was feeling pretty good at this point, about 13 miles in, with a marathon or so to go. Being in front was a weird but nice experience, I doubted it would last though.  I reckoned Dave and I had a good 2-3 minute lead at this point and we could only see the others when there was a really long straight behind us. I decided to make the most of feeling good and started banging out 4:50/kms along the canal, trying to put a little more distance between me and the rest of the pack behind, also hoping that if they stopped seeing me they’d assume I was gone and not worth chasing.

CP3 came and went, and I put some distance between myself and Dave until we hit Daisy Nook just after CP4. I’m pretty sure I went the “right” way, but all of a sudden, from not being able to see him behind me, we bumped into each other on the trail. This was about 20 miles in, and we ran a lot of the next 15 miles together. A couple of times I ran on ahead, only to take a slight wrong turn or stop to double check the map, and then we’d be running together again. At CP5/25 miles I was getting thirsty – it was warming up and one bottle wasn’t quite enough to get between the CPs. Dave was suffering too with cramp. We were still well in the lead at that point though, and hadn’t seen anyone for ages.

 I was starting to think maybe I could win, but also that I could just as easily blow up and have to walk the last 10 miles watching everyone else come past. I was also starting to wonder what the deal with Dave’s missed CP would be. Officially, he should be DQd, and to be fair, he said at every aid station when he handed his card in that he’d missed CP2 but was carrying on. But I had a nagging feeling that they wouldn’t care at the finish, especially if a lot of other people were missing them.

At about 27 miles I decided to make a bit of a break for it. I could see from the map there was another good flat stretch around Dove Stone Reservoir, so I upped the pace through some woods and then onto the trail around the reservoir. I could see it was a big loop, and that I’d get a really good view of who was coming up behind once I was on the other side. As it was, there was no-one. I was about 5 minutes ahead of Dave at 30 miles, and when I got to CP6 they told me Dave and I had passed CP5 15 minutes ahead of a the group behind us. I was pretty sure no-one that far behind would have run as hard round the reservoir as I did, and since I made 5 minutes on Dave who was still going pretty well, I could have been as much as 20 minutes ahead. For the first time I really thought I could win, although I knew that either one wrong turn from me, or someone with local knowledge cutting the route could eat into that really easily.

I left CP6 with 7 miles to go feeling ok, and trotted up the first part of Alderman’s Hill (on left of picture above), before slowing to almost a crawl. It was really steep and seemed to go on for ever, but I was overtaking mountain bikers pushing their bikes up and cursing which I took as a good sign. I got the top of the hill and was totally wrecked. There was a bench at the war memorial which looked so inviting, but I didn’t dare sit down, so I plodded on, hoping that going down the other side would be easier. Instead, I was confronted with the aptly named Dick Hill. I trudged up to the top of that hill and immediately made my first navigational error in miles. At the top of the hill, there was only one recognisable trail, a steep rock strewn channel heading down the other side of the hill. I had a big smile on my face as I bounded down it, I felt great, like I was in some YouTube ultrarunning video, hopping from rock to rock like a pro. Then I looked ahead and saw the trail swing right which felt wrong. I stopped, checked my map, and realised I was on the wrong trail! I immediately felt awful, I noticed the pain in my legs for the first time, and I just felt sick for being so stupid. I was convinced I’d thrown away my best ever chance to win an ultra, and the thought of climbing back up the trail I’d just run down made me want to cry. Instead, I turned around, map in hand and started running as hard as I could back up, the whole time expecting to see Dave or someone else running along the top on the right path. It was like the Dukeries Ultra all over again.

At that point I tripped. I had my map in one hand and my water bottle in the other, both of which I instantly decided were more important than my face, so I kept hold of them, tucked my head in, and managed to go straight over onto my back, smashing my back, left hip and the back of my right hand on the rocks. I think it must’ve been the adrenaline from the fall, but I immediately felt better, got up, and clambered back up to where I’d missed the turn.

As it turned, out, there wasn’t a turn to miss. It was just open moorland, with no obvious trail anywhere, but I could see the road a mile or so away that I needed to cross, so trudged through the mud in that direction.  I glanced over my shoulder and saw a group of about 4 people maybe a mile away. I couldn’t tell if they were in the race or just out hiking, but if I was 20 minutes ahead before I spent 10 minutes playing in the rocks, they were in the right place to be chasing me down. All of a sudden I thought I could get dumped into 5th place quite easily if I didn’t stop messing about.

I passed through the village of Diggle, and a REALLY nice looking pub, and shuffled on. Looking at the map there was one hill left to go. I doubt it was the biggest hill on the route, and it definitely wasn’t the steepest, but it went on forever. I couldn’t even run the occasional flat stretches on the way up I was that battered. I broke out my emergency Twix to cheer myself up which worked a bit, and drank the last  drops of my water and steeled myself for the final stretch. At the top I could finally see the reservoir near where we started. It took a minute to get my legs working, and then I started trotting down the road towards the finish. I was willing the miles to just disappear, and then I passed the little fork where we’d turned left on the way out, and saw the finish. When I turned the corner into the finish straight and saw the finish tape still intact I nearly cried. I still had some doubts about whether anyone had plotted a quicker route, but to see the finish line there waiting for me was amazing. I broke the tape in 7 hours 50 mins, and went inside for the best bacon sandwich I’ve ever had in my life.

I hung around an hour or so to see some of the other runners in, eat some more food, and collect my medal and prize (a weird running light thing). There was no trophy which was disappointing, especially for my first ultra win, but never mind.

Overall, the race was ok. It’s the first time it’s been run, and there are a few things I’d probably change. In the race info they said navigational skills would be an advantage, but I think they should say essential. That I won largely due to my navigational skills and still ran an extra 3 miles says an awful lot. The last minute announcement of the navigational free-for-all was frustrating. I think they need to decide and either say follow the route (it is the Oldham Way Ultra after all), or navigate your own way between the checkpoints. Looking back there were loads of places where you could have gone a shorter route, and I reckon with a bit of planning you could get between the check points in around 35 miles, despite it ultimately taking me 43. If I was being fussy, one more CP in the second half of the race would be nice, and the medal was a bit crap consider it was £38 to enter, £49 if you entered in the last four weeks before the race. But ignoring all that, the route was amazing. I’ll definitely head out that way and run stretches of it again for training, especially the last ten miles or so, if only to find out where that rocky trail would’ve taken me if I’d carried on…

There are runs when you feel like you’re flying; that you’re barely touching the ground, covering mile after mile at speed with barely an effort. You just glide, oblivious to the passing of time and distance – you aren’t just running, you are running. This was not one of those days.

In the run up to this race I’d built up some unnecessary pressure on myself.  This was my first ever race when I ran it in 2011 (1:56), and where I ran my half marathon PB in 2012 (1:36), both of which are among the most unpleasant experiences of my life, so I already had some bad feeling about the race, and the distance in general. I had also managed to mention to a few people that I wanted to run a sub 1:30. Unfortunately I didn’t back that desire up with any race specific training at all.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t in bad shape, but checking back through my training on dailymile, I hadn’t run longer than 45 mins at the pace I’d need to run sub 1:30 for months. The forecast was also for a stiff head wind for the last four miles along the promenade, exactly the point at which my training indicated I was most likely to die.

I weighed all this up against the fact that if I somehow did run under 1:30, I would never have to run another half marathon again, and decided to give it my best shot.

At the start it was all quite fun. I saw David and Les from SWAC/RDB, dropped my bag on the baggage bus, and had a little warm up run before climbing over a fence into the start pen with the 1:30 runners. With around 6,800 runners there were around 6,600 more than I’m used to, which was quite exciting until we got started and people started bumping into me. It was a bit tight and a couple of people fell in the first half a mile or so, but then it soon opened up and there was a bit more space.

After a mile, I knew I was in for a bad time. My legs felt wooden, like I was running on stumps, and my shins were in agony. I felt awful, like I’d never run before, a hundred times worse than when I’ve run multiple marathons or ultras, and was really struggling to keep the 4:10/km pace I was aiming for. Last time I felt like this was the first few miles of the Manchester Marathon last year, and that eased up after a couple of miles, so I ploughed on hopefully. At three miles as we hit the parks it was no better. My form was all over the place, and I could hear my feet smashing into the ground over my mp3 player which made things worse. I tried turning my music off and concentrating on running smoother, but when I did my pace dropped to nearly 5:15/km which I couldn’t afford to do for long.

As we went around Sefton Park I saw Matt from SWAC who was going well. We said hi and overtook each other a few times which was really good. Seeing a friendly face was great the way I was feeling, and knowing he was either just in front or behind me was a bit of a distraction from the pain in my legs.

At this point my Garmin decided to throw me some more drama. Every time I looked at it, it said something different, jumping from 4:10/km to 4:25/km, without me (as far as I could tell) doing anything different. The splits I was getting each km seemed roughly on target though.

I don’t remember much of going through the parks, just that as we came around Sefton Park for the last time at 7 miles things started looking up. My form hadn’t improved (still stamping those feet), and I wasn’t going any faster, but I got to employ my running super-power – recognising the point where it isn’t getting worse. I was in pain, clumping along like a fully-grown Pinocchio, but at last, it wasn’t getting worse. As far as I’m concerned that equates to being invincible. The next two miles were the least horrible of the race, round the back of the park, and through the woods by Jericho Lane down onto the prom.

I was even feeling well enough to get pissed off at all the people that cut two massive corners off on the approach to the prom, despite shed-loads of barrier tape and it being blatantly obvious which way to go. I made a point of being the only one anywhere near me to take the last hairpin before the 8.5 mile water stop properly.

Then it was the prom. 4.5 miles to go, into a pretty stiff breeze. I started that stretch in a small group, which gave me some shelter, but they were going 4:45/km. I didn’t think the wind was worth 35secs/km, so I broke out of that group on my own, fighting through the wind to the next group a hundred yards up. That was hard as hell, but the new and crushing pain in my lungs was a welcome distraction from the pain in my legs. As soon as I got to that group, thinking I’d get a slight break from the wind, the group just sort of fragmented. I was quickly at the front of a group of three, then I left the other two behind. I was running around 4:15/kms at this stage, but had no idea where I was cumulatively, or how close I was to 1:29:59. I figured I must’ve been close though, so I decided it was worth kicking at 10 miles and giving it whatever I had left. As it turns out that wasn’t much. I somehow managed to convince myself that there were 3km rather than 3 miles left, which I realised at the next mile marker, and the mile from 12 to 13 seemed to go on for ever.

The wind was relentless, and I came close to being blow into the six million benches, dustbins and other random street furniture a few times, but eventually the Arena (where the finish used to be) materialised and it was time to really go for it. I got into a nice duel with a guy in a red gilet, and spent the last half a mile or so desperately swapping places with him as if it somehow mattered which one of us crossed the line first.

As I hit the 13 mile marker and just had two small turns back into the finish chute I looked at my watch and still couldn’t work out if I would make it under 1:30. With 100 yards to go I checked again and it looked like I had a minute and a half to spare, but I was so trashed, so desperate for air and struggling to keep upright at the pace I was running, I still didn’t think I’d make it.

Then I crossed the line and stopped my Garmin which I accidentally turned off at the same time. I sucked air for a few seconds, felt the relief of it all being over flood over me and through my legs, and shuffled up the finish chute to collect my medal, t-shirt and jelly beans.  I found a bench and started to stretch, while I recalled the details from my Garmin, and couldn’t believe it – 1:29:09. That was my gun time too, so I knew it was safely under 1:30. After that some more SWAC runners came in, and it was great to see Clare, Matt and Carl (all of whom could’ve kicked my ass if they’d been properly racing), before heading off to Rigbys for some post-race carbs with the RDB mob.

The day after, I’m still happy with my time, although I’m questioning whether it was worth the hammering I gave myself. I really hadn’t trained at the right intensity for that kind of race/pace, and my calves in particular are smashed. I still don’t know what was going on with my gait/form that caused the pain in my shins, maybe I was just too tense thinking about the 1:30 target, but I hope the damage I’ve done is just superficial. One thing’s for sure, the Oldham Way 40 next week will be a far more relaxing affair, at least for the first 30miles or so.

I'm a bit nervous about the Liverpool Half Marathon this weekend, mainly because my target time is based on what I'd like to be able to say I did, rather than any evidence that I can run that time, or specific training for doing it. I have a plan though, so I'm sure I'll be ok.

I somehow managed to make it to March this year without running a marathon or an ultra, so to say I was excited to be running the Bolton Hill marathon twice in 2 days would be an understatement. The race was just a single day thing last year, in the coldest conditions I’ve ever raced in, but this year was shaping up to be pretty nice as I mooched around “Marathon City” – the bunch of tents in Moss Bank Park in Bolton.

There was a good buzz around on the Saturday morning, lots of people retelling tales of the snow and ice from the year before, and there were loads of people about that I knew, either from the Hell of a Hill last year (same organisers), the Running Discussion Board on Facebook, or just from other races.

Registration was quick, I stuck my chip on my shoe, and after a quick visit to the gents, we were off. I’d set myself a rough target of 8 hours 30 for the two marathons, which although wouldn’t be mega quick, it also wouldn’t give me much time for hanging about, chatting at the aid stations and tweeting photos of my flapjacks. The first 4 miles or so were pretty much uphill, to the top of Winter Hill. I’d really struggled with that stretch last time, but it wasn’t really a problem at all this time around (apart from briefly losing my shoe in a bog) which I took to be a very good sign. I ran back down the other side of Winter Hill like an idiot, clocked a 3:30/km which I had a feeling I’d regret, and then things levelled out a bit for the flat stretch past Rivington Pike and the reservoir. It was cool to see some of the Hell of a Hill route again, although it was weird not recognising much of the rest of the route, since it had been covered in snow the last time I saw it.

One of the oddest things about the Bolton Hill route, is that although there are two sodding great hills, it’s actually the flat bits that take the biggest toll. Constantly switching from rocky Roman roads, to tarmac, to muddy moorland, to rocky trails is hard going, and there are some tricky stretches if you’re not used to that kind of terrain.

I was still having a whale of a time when I hit halfway in 1:50, which I knew was too quick for the next day to be enjoyable, so I eased off a touch coming round the other side of the reservoir at about 15 miles, despite part of me wanting to hammer it and see what happened. The climb back up towards Rivington Pike was a pig, but from the top I knew I was nearly home, and looking to be comfortably under 4 hours which was well inside my goal time. From the mile 25 marker at the top of a muddy descent, it felt like ages to the finish, but eventually I was running down the road we’d headed out on earlier, and running back into the park.

The finish to this race is ace, it’s generally downhill for the last few miles which is cool, but then the last 200m or so are down a steep grassy bank in the park which makes for a nice stupid sprint finish. I’m not entirely sure what Phil and Kris were thinking with the finishing chute though, the entrance to it was MASSIVE – you’d have got the entire field of runners down there in one go, so it felt pretty cool having all that space to myself when I came in, just over 3 hours 56.

I had a mooch about after to see if anyone else I knew was around, and had a chat with a couple of the other runners that came in behind me, but then I shot off home for an ice bath and as much food as I could possibly eat to set me up for day 2.

If anything, the Sunday was even more fun. There were more people there I knew that day, including David Marsh from SWAC and Les and Martin from the RDB and it was a little warmer, and a little drier under foot to boot.

My legs were feeling a little trashed, but nothing specific hurt, and as I started up the first hill I found a bit of rhythm and plodded my way to the top. All I wanted to do for day 2 was keep things feeling comfortable, so I kept the pace about 10-20 seconds per km slower for the main part, and just took my time. This time I hit halfway in 1:57 which felt ok, and knowing I could almost walk in under my target from there took a bit of pressure off. I bumped into David and Gill at one of the checkpoints which we hit twice, before and after running around the reservoir, and had a bit of chat with them and the marshals, before heading off for the final climb. I ran a big part of the final stretch with a guy who was running it as a warm up for the Manchester Marathon, and we chatted a bit as we went along which was cool. With a couple of miles to go he stopped for a pee, and I carried on, and pushed the pace a little, finishing in 4:09. 

Overall I was pretty happy, one of the places I want to be before the South Downs Way 100 is for a 4 hour marathon on similar terrain to feel easy, and for the most part that did. I’ve got a couple of opportunities to see if I can hold a similar pace for longer in one stretch at the Oldham Way (40m) and Malvern Hills (53m) over the next few weeks, but for now, things are looking on track.