The Cotswold Relay

Last Saturday I ran the last 9mile leg of the Cotswold Relay from Cold Ashton back down into Bath. This event breaks the full 103miles of the Cotswold Way up into ten legs and the stretch I was to run forms the backbone of the small repertoire of training runs that I have been slowly acquiring since moving to the Cotswolds last September. I don’t know why, when asked by the team captain, I chose this one, as it would have been very nice to have gone further afield and investigated pastures new. But there I was, on Saturday afternoon, with the minutes ticking down and the air temperature ever so slightly beginning to cool as great isolated white monsters billowed in from across the Cotswold Ridge brining some much needed shade.

 

In the wake of completing the Classic Quarter 44mile ultra described below, I had completed in the intervening period of 20days, a grand total of 2 runs clocking about 18miles. This was probably no bad thing and I would certainly have been laughing on the other side of my face by now if I had tried to jump straight back in with a 60mile + weekly training load. So whilst I felt unfamiliar in my running shoes last Saturday morning, I did feel rather rested. I do some energetic jumping, more to prove this to myself, than to warm up as I prepare to make the best of my home advantage.

 

David Vaudin toes the line with me, on my right. Next to him is Holly Rush. All three of us dressed in blue: Team Bath! Both of them are quality runners. David is posting quality Senior times despite being in the V50 club and Holly is now four weeks fresh from her inspiring 7^th place showing at the Comrades Ultra.

 

And then it’s away, down Greenway Lane. The late sun presses to our backs as we turn due south, and we are going down. Down steep and with quick pattering steps on the road. A burning in the ball of my feet as the rubber smarts on the road; the descent steepens more. Runners flail by and then splashing we come through a trickling river puddle after a hard right at the valley’s floor. A meadow is infront of us and two abreast at the kissing gate, we break into it, David and I. Holly just behind. Seven or eight runners breathe out into the field infront of us , the pace relaxing as late dandelions are kicked out and tall grasses have their seed spread by churning feet.

Climbing back onto the ridge of the Cotswolds shortly, we all check our pace but I just manage to carry some momentum through and pass some runners with two still to chase. The afternoon’s air washes around our mouth like fresh sand to a cement mixer and the best I can do is signal to the marshals ‘two cups!’ with my fingers outstrecthed as we pass a water station where I fill my boots.

Beach Wood is on our right and then we are exposed on the common land of Hanging Hill. I hold my breath as I pass the front runner so as to not give away my fight and look out across the vale of Biton, the Seven Estuary and beyond to the Black Mountains. I think of the men who I was told were brought to this spot to be to be hung infront of the world in centuries past. And I breathe out.

I’m deep within my stomping ground here and on the home straight of what was my final 30mile training run in preparation for that ultra. But I have never run it hard, not like this. And I have never been first…. Not in anything actually. And it’s a funny feeling.

I play Pro and look back over my shoulder for the competition, like you overhear proper runners do. But I’m out of my depth now and wouldn’t know what to do if they did start closing in on me again. So I concentrate on running. This strategy pulls me round Little Down and sends me pattering through the high summer’s undergrowth to Prospect Stile as my breath is starting to rollout, heavy now.

‘What’ I think ‘if I go off course. Make it obvious that I wish to disqualify myself, and then jog it in gently to the finish line. It is too difficult to keep going like this. It is too much. Give up now.’

This is crazy talk of course and I push it right back where it can’t boil over. I’m running the flats with heart again as I turn Kelston Round Hill and catch my first glimpse of the City. A long finger of curving ridge extends exploratively into the suburbs now; steep sided, rock strewn and technical.  And I blunder down it slightly vertiginous from the speed of descent.  On the lower arm of Dean Hill there is a stile that leads out across the last vestige of the Cotswold ridge before it fizzles out completely in Weston Village. Like a hurdler, I check my step and try to remember my rehearsed sequence for clearing it. But it is all a jumble as I arrive with too much speed, miss my footing and then spill with violence onto the floor on the other side with a shudder.

After this, and with the steady transition from hedgerows to houses that begins here, the joy goes out of it a bit. I switch my watch off so that I’m not counting the minutes down and then stride out as best I can; more for the sake of the team, than personal victory, to keep the mystery runner on my tail at bay for as long as possible. There is no one to be seen, but the line of sight behind me is diminishing as we twist faster and faster through the suburbs now. I put Weston behind me with what feels like a big effort and when I arrive at the top of Victoria Park I have the feeling that I might just have put some time between us.

The cramps come on as I round the obelisk by Marlborough road and so it is gingerly that I try to open it up as we pass underneath the Royal Crescent; Japanese and Chinese tourists crowding the walkways. I run in the road on the approach to The Circus and a car beeps me as I swing out, recklessly perhaps, onto Gay Street and overtake a coach on the outside. It is an incongruous feeling having started an hour ago surrounded by fields and cows and open spaces. I realise that I am going to arrive first and worry myself over the last 300meters about the attention this might bring as people now begin to applaud. There is no tape thankfully at Bath Abbey and of course it is a team effort, with ours finishing a middling 35 of 70 odd teams. Shortly after crossing the line I hug Sofie who has been enjoying a much more relaxing afternoon with coffee and a good book nearby in the city centre.

It is admittedly a nice feeling to have crossed the line first and I do feel a sense of achievement. I did think to myself, however, how much more enjoyable the last few miles of the Classic Quarter Ultra had been, despite having 3x the number of miles in my legs: pain in the legs from running long distances steady it seems is much more tolerable for me than the pains in the chest from running shorter distances hard. I was pretty off the pace compared to previous years as well, and with a time of 1:05:16 for the 9.8 miles (240m ascent, 410 descent), when the record is just under the hour, I think I was a bit lucky with the runners I was drawn against for this stage.

 

I enjoyed clapping in the other runners. Nathan Smith from Gloucester Gladiators had closed in on me a bit at the end and it would have been close, had he not got lost on the final approach through the streets of Bath. He finished in 1:05:52.  Holly arrived smiling shortly after in 1:06:44 and in 5^th place overall: the next women didn’t arrive for nearly another nine minutes. David arrived with another great run a few minutes behind Holly.

 

After hobbling the short distance back to the house and a shower, we set out on the tandem together to attend the prize giving. Here I met the race organiser Luke Sturgess-Durden who is a absolutely top chap, and along with David and several other members of Bath AC who I had not met before we had a right good old chin wag  and then went on for a curry and this was the best part of the day.