Rob Styles Reports
Forcing myself to lift my head, I could finally see the finish flags. Two large black flags with the very welcome Finish emblazoned in yellow.
I picked up my pace, just 150 metres to go to the line, and all downhill. Steeply downhill. Insanely. Steeply. Down. A drop of more than 60 metres in the last 150 metres of running. A gradient of 2-in-5.
With my pace slightly quicker than eight minutes-a-mile I crossed the line to the cheers and support of the watching crowd…
And by crowd I mean four race marshals, Simeon, and an old lady who’d wandered over from the village hall. And by cheers I mean a lacklustre and slightly reluctant round of applause, as my late finish meant they’d missed last orders (early due to covid restrictions).
This was my first ever fell race and, like my first ever cross-country, saw me finishing in last place, quite some way behind the pack.
Back in July when Lesley Pymm mentioned this race on Facebook it was sunny, I’d been trail running that day, and life felt good. A nice drive out to North Wales, a bit of a bimble up and down a hill in the sunshine, and a drive home with the sun setting behind seemed like a lovely idea. So I booked places for Simeon and me to go run it.
It turns out Middletown Hill is a foolhardy choice for a first fell race.
I should mention that the organisers work quite hard at pointing this out, stating clearly it really is a race for fell runners, not road runners. Naively I thought the trail running I’ve been doing would be good training. It wasn’t. Fell running is an entirely different discipline and I’d go as far as to suggest the winner this year, Andy Watkins of Mercia Fell Runners in 24:42, may be of non-terrestrial origin.
So why does the Middletown Hill race get described as tough, brutal, insane even, when it’s only 1.8 miles?
The first 0.4 miles, just 640 metres, includes 220 metres of climb. It starts steep right out of the gate, and gets steeper, and then steeper still. The final 50 metres before the top sees many “runners” on all-fours.
I felt huge relief at reaching the summit, the Welsh flag and a couple of marshals with friendly greetings. I had started the race running, downgraded that to a strong hike, and then downgraded still further to a mixture of crawling, scrambling, and sobbing gently.
At the top I was already so far behind the rest of the pack I couldn’t see another runner, and the tail walkers had caught me up for the last stretch of the climb.
The relief of the summit didn’t last long as the route descends the north side of the hill which is equally, brutally, steep. Within seconds of starting down my thighs and shins were burning, my feet rammed into the front of my (perfectly well-fitting) trail shoes. At least the descent presents a chance to pick up the pace, if only by falling faster than I had climbed. Mud, wet grass, roots and then into the woods. I’ve run trails that are described as extremely technical — running down the north side of Middletown Hill is in a completely different category.
Having slipped, landed on my ass, caught myself on tree branches, slipped again, I made it to the bottom of the north side and rounded the corner. It’s at this point, after 220 metres of climb and 140 metres of steep descent, that my watch beeps to tell me I’ve covered the first kilometre; I’ve been running, walking, crawling, and crying for 25 minutes and 6 seconds.
A shorter climb up through the dark and enveloping woods on the east side of the hill, then a short descent and we reach the start of the final climb. At this point the course turns steeply back uphill and we climb, again, to the summit flag. I’m not quite sure why anyone thought this was a good idea. We’ve already climbed the hill, and run back down the other side. But now we’re climbing the hill again. My legs are wobbly, my breathing and heart rate still high despite the relative ease (there was no ease, relative or otherwise) of the wooded section, and off I go again, up a slope steeper than a Land Rover advert.
I hadn’t seen another runner since late in the first climb, so any ideas of a finish time had left me. A short way up I sat on the hillside, looking out over the incredible view, my breathing slowing, questioning my life choices and wondering if Lesley had posted the race on Facebook as a joke for the unwary.
Picking myself back up I pushed on to the summit for the second visit to the flag, zig-zagging up the hillside this time, as going straight up was no longer an option for my poor, tired, aching, legs. Oh my God, my legs. My poor legs. They burn… Up to the summit and a turn back downhill brings us quickly back to where I started:
Forcing myself to lift my head, I could finally see the finish flags. Two large black flags with the very welcome Finish emblazoned in yellow.
I picked up my pace, just 150 metres to go to the line, and all downhill. Steeply downhill. Insanely. Steeply. Down. A drop of more than 60 metres in the last 150 metres of running. A gradient of 2-in-5.
With my pace slightly quicker than eight minutes-a-mile I crossed the line to the cheers and support of the watching crowd…
And Simeon asking “Are you alright? We were starting to get worried about you.”
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Out of a field of 40 runners total:
Simeon placed 30 in 0:40:51
Rob placed 40 in 1:03:03