If only I could have managed a sprint finish after 20 miles, 1320 meters and 3h 37m I would have been revelling in headlines of "JD gubs Gala Harrier". As it was, after dragging him round the last hour and a half he had the temerity to casually finish a couple of secs ahead of me. It was hot, it was dry and I felt that at last all those long races were proving fruitful as I seemed to be pulling in people all the time from the summit of The Cheviot. Mind you, they included the walkers and "B" runners who had set off earlier giving even a modest plodder like me that wonderful feeling of zooming past people what like "real" runners like Rodwell do when they are not sleepwalking through a race like today. I was 17th, Damon 16th, 1st man home was @3h01m. It was a cracker of a race, a bit like a runnable two Breweries and well organised in the lovely Border town of Wooler.
Full results
Damon's report =
A week is a long time in hill-running. After last week’s “monumental” run (thanks Hamilton) at the Eildons, I drove down to Wooler for the 20-mile Chevy Chase feeling perky and quietly confident that I’d win by a street, pull lots of birds and knock the course record into history. There was a minor hurdle to overcome, however. I didn’t have an entry, the race website said it was full, and the organiser had resolutely declined to return any of my emails or phone calls. Fortunately I bumped into JD (an you don’t often hear anyone say that!) and his beloved, who had the happy news that her mate couldn’t run and that her number was up for grabs.
The race starts with a couple of mile on the road, which I ran in a group of about a dozen. This thinned out when we left the road and started up the first gentle climb. I seemed to be toiling harder than I would have expected at what was a pretty conversational pace, but hoped that a few miles would blow the cobwebs away. Unfortunately it didn’t turn out that way. After about 40 minutes we hit the first significant climb, up the Cheviot on a wide and extremely runnable track. Runnable on fresh legs, that is. As it was, mine were feeling anything but fresh, and I found that it was all I could do to walk. A steady stream of runners trooped past. It’s quite a confusing event, with three separate starts for walkers, slow runners and faster runners. The consequence of this is that from about 3 miles onwards you are constantly following by a snake of walkers and runners who have set off up to 90 minutes before you. I found that the effect on my morale alternated every couple of minutes between a pleasant and blissful ignorance of my position in the field and deep gloom about how many plodders were in front. It also presented considerable problem when the paths were narrow. Time and time again I had to dive off into horrible tussocks to get past walkers, many armed with those stupid ski-sticks (what’s all that about?), who had absolutely no intention of letting runners past without a fight.
We crested the Cheviot and immediately plunged off piste down an outrageously steep heathery descent, which eventually levelled off into a gently falling trod.
At just about this point a terrible thing happened. I was pussy-footing down feeling a bit sorry for myself when the first lady skittered past. No big deal, you might think. What you don’t know, of course, is that it was not only a lady, but a lady veteran, and not only that but she’s my elder kids’ French teacher. Mon Dieu, quelle horreur, sacre bleu and pish! I had visions of not being allowed across the threshold when I got home, which stirred me from my torpor and I livened up a little, passing her soon afterwards on a climb and gradually pulling away. Believe it or not, worse was to come. The long climb up the other side of the valley was a real sod – a real battle through deep, deep tussocks, fought to the constant accompaniment of dozens of large buzzing flies that crawled on my scalp and invaded ears, nose and mouth. I was carrying one of those 2-litre rehydration pouches in my backpack for the first time ever, and I felt sure that one of the twins had climbed in too, for a laugh.
Just when I was contemplating different methods of topping myself the tussocks turned into a path and the top of the long climb appeared.
And then the worse thing happened. Even more of a blow, and even more of a kick up the oompah than the first lady vet coming past was the first JD coming past! The result was similar to a few weeks ago running on the hills close to home when I stepped over a wire fence and got the full force of a 5000 volt belt through my testicles. They’re still tingling, if the truth be told, and fizz a bit in foggy weather.
We ran together (John and me… and my chuckies), more-or-less, in companionable knackeredness for the entire second half of the race, each labouring through a couple of bad patches and wilting progressively in the muggy heat, and finished within a minute of one another.
This was the 50th running of the event, and it’s a bit of a classic. About three-quarters of it is on very runnable paths, with a couple of stiff climbs, some lovely shady deciduous woodland and winding riparian tracks. And flies, of course. Lots of flies.
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