CTS Stage 9: Pootling Pembrokehire

I wake up with an almighty flap. There's hammering rain and massive winds and a storm to make a God fearing man start to pray. Luckily I'm not one though, so I slowly cotton on to what's going on around me. The wind is shaking the roof of the tent to the point I can't tell if it's blown the fly off or even blown me off and I ain't in Kansas no more. I wake up a bit more fully and ascertain I'm not in a tornado on my way to the Land of Oz, but the tent isn't as secure as it needed to be in this sort of weather. It's close enough, though, so I do my best to get back to sleep.

That was about one in the morning I think. About six I got woken up by the overexcited campers who also kept me awake until midnight shouting excitedly about the race in the morning. As I was awake anyway I got up early and am now milling about at the start well over an hour early.

I see Noel, the other guy who is doing all of the races, and Judith who I've run briefly with on a couple of them too and we while away the time until the start chatting away about all things running.

The briefing happens out in the carpark and most of us get pretty cold before going around the bay with the winds coming in to wait a few more minutes until we can get cracking. Most of us pace up and down or just stand there jumping to try to keep warm. We get a quick countdown then head off up the yellow brick road.

Last time I was here was February 2011. It was my second ever race, and a bit nicer weather despite it now being early May. We also started up the hill and straight onto the headland, whereas today the route has changed to go up the road for a mile or two, I'm guessing to help with the congestion at the start.

Noel and I stick together for the first bit, both just happy to be getting moving and not freezing. There's a loud roar of laughter as someone takes all of three steps and goes through a huge puddle. Other than that though there isn't a lot of chatting, most likely I think because people are still warming up.

We start almost straight away up a fair gradient and up a hill. It's a good chance to stretch the calves out to get going, though I can feel they're tight so try not to push too hard. The field is already starting to file out a little bit and we find ourselves nearish to the front, despite me having said I wanted to hang out at the back for this race as I'm not feeling like pushing it too hard today. Oh well, plenty of time to slow down.

Eventually we reach a turn off down a trail and find ourselves on the headland I remember from last time. The view is a bit murkier today though. As we're now narrowed down into single file we find ourselves galling into a group. There is around a dozen of us, give or take, and all keep moving at the same pace.

Still no one is talking to each other. It suits me fine though as I'm in a mood more to wander my thoughts than to chat idly. Everyone just seems focused on putting one foot in front of the other at the moment instead. I try to keep looking around me at the scenery but find that because the pace is being dictated not only by those in front but by those behind and we're grouped quite closely together I have to focus more than normal on where I'm placing my feet to make sure I stay both with Noel in front and the next guy behind.

The first few kilometres here are fairly easy and rolling undulations. As we're still fresh on the first section no one stops to walk and we just put in little spurts to get up the small sporadic inclines. We catch our breath at the top before going forward to the next down section.

When we get to about five kilometres into the route the path widens briefly and Noel takes the chance to ask how I am. I say I feel okay but a bit rusty and he tells me he's not doing too badly either. By the time we get a chance to go any further with the conversation the trail thins again and we're back to needing to focus on following the person in front and not trip anyone up.

I feel quite good having got a bit more pace in early on compared to what I thought I was going to, with my go slow plan, but I'm also finding the group train I'm on a little monotonous so decide at the next chance I get to fall back and let them go on ahead.

About this point the woman who is second in the group overtakes the first and goes on the attack ahead. No one follows, but I notice one or two look to be doing the same off the back. The pace has been steady, and despite being undulations it has been more down than uphill, so I guess some people have been taking it easy and some going hard and it's starting to show.

Another couple of kilometres along and the path opens out onto a small open area. You can sense a breath of relief from most of the group as we're released to have a break and go at our own pace even briefly. I take the opportunity to move aside and let the ones behind me pass so I can continue at my own pace.

The weather is still pretty murky and a small drizzle starts now after being only damp air so far. Looking around the visibility is low, which is a shame as this coastline is pretty amazing, though I'm glad this is happening at the race where I've already seen it before.

We're dipping in and out of bay, around headlands and soon enough we get to a stony beach crossing which takes us to our first checkpoint at around eight or nine kilometres. I've not had any water yet so I just grab a little bit of food and keep myself moving.

From here we divert from the coast that we've been following for the whole time until now and start to make our way inland a bit. It's now a steady gradient for a couple of kilometres or so, but mainly I just put my head down and plod on, keen to get the first few miles under my belt without too much distraction. The rain is starting to get a little worse, though that's mainly because the wind is starting to pick up.

I pass through the small town of Marloes, which is where I stayed last time I was here, so I'm trying to work out if it is the same place or not, when another runner starts chatting to me.

We start the conversation with the usual bits about training and races, then as we're getting caught up there is a sharp turn down an alley through the town. He's just in the middle of telling me about doing the one hundred and forty three mile Grand Union Canal Race in a few weeks. Luckily I saw the turn from a while away as he carries on through the town. I joke that he won't have to worry about the same navigation on the GUCR, just that if he gets really suddenly wet, he's taken a wrong turn and he's in the wrong bit...

I also mention that I think we met on a previous race. I'm pretty sure this is the guy I ran a few miles with at the Sussex race, leading up to the half marathon checkpoint, but he's not too sure. We carry on and despite my bad mood and not really feeling like running much, it is good to have someone to chat to and it is helping take my mind off it.

We reach the long disused runways of an airfield, which again I remember, although didn't know it was an airfield. All I remembered was that it was an open plain with concrete paths. Today, however, is different as the weather is considerably worse and as soon as we're out on the exposed hilltops, the wind comes in with a vengeance.

After the Anglesey race I made sure I always have a rough idea of the weather report, but now make sure to check wind as well as temperature. Today has an easterly forecast and gusts up to twenty five miles an hour. Coming onto the runway, I can now testify that I believe the weather report was correct as the light rain is buffeted into our faces. It feels like every step is running through treacle. I can almost see it trickling off my shoes with each pace it feels so visceral. We still keep chatting, though it's a bit more forced to match our pace and efforts.

We get to the end of the runway then turn down another long one and continue to grit our teeth. To be honest, I prefer a bit of a challenge to add some variation to the day. After what seems an age, we reach the end of this runway and turn away from it, back into some less exposed terrain.

It's quite nice to be able to feel my face again and hear what each other is saying and after a couple more minutes we reach the second checkpoint. We tap in our timing chips and I grab a custard cream and a few crisps and continue walking ahead, shouting that I'll let the other guy catch up. He does so thirty seconds later and I tell him I'm going to take it a bit easier and let him go on ahead. Before he goes he tells me we've done a little over nine miles. Getting there slowly then.

This section is downhill on a road to the town of Dale. On the way down I pass an old walled off country home. It's quite well barricaded considering it doesn't look to be a defensive outpost. I look at it in puzzlement a moment before carrying on.

Soon enough I reach the bottom of the road and am back on the coastline with a nice wind buffeting me from the side. I'm now travelling south with the easterly winds gusting off the sea to my left at me again, but not as bad as it was on the airfield luckily.

There are a few people about, though not many. This side of the country doesn't seem to be very highly populated at this time of year, especially down in these hard to reach remote towns.

There is a marina that I go past before getting to a small smattering of shops. I remember getting high fives from children here four years ago. No one is here giving me high fives this time around, and I realise that the route is back to front. They did mention on the start line it had changed around a bit over the years, and it has felt like some of it I knew and some of it I didn't so far.

I pass the last pub then head back uphill and back into the woods. This section is quite nice around some trees here or there and almost completely deserted. The rain is still coming down but only lightly currently so it doesn't feel so bad right now.

Again, for a while I just plod along, trying not to think too much and just let myself tick the miles off. I know that I'm soon to loop back to the last checkpoint and do this whole section again, so I don't faff about too much wanting to look at the various parts of scenery.

I reach a gate that takes me off to the right and off the road back into the fields. There is another runner coming up behind me. I debate waiting and holding the gate for him but he's just that little bit too far behind. I go through and cross the field and soon enough he passes me anyway. He's going at pace and I realise this must be the race leader for the marathon. Only a couple of minutes later someone else follows him as we go back down the other side of the headland and back into a wooded bay. I wish them both luck as they pass.

The bay here is nice to look at and has a little stone shelter, presumably for bad weather such as this. I make sure to look out to the sea and remind myself that I'm here for the scenery so even if I am coming back on another loop there's no reason not to enjoy it this time around, then start my way up the other side.

It's a fairly steady incline for a while, and a couple more minutes pass when the third place marathon runner Charles up the incline behind me. He look in his fifties, but is clearly running as if he was in his twenties. I step aside to let him pass and tell him there's only a couple ahead and not that far, he asks if it's just the two and I confirm for him before he pushes ahead. Thirty seconds after him arrives another runner.

There's now a few kilometres of running along the fields at the top of the cliffs down to the coastline boasting away below. There's a few moments where the wind picks up and bashes into my face but on the whole it's okay.

For about a kilometre I see what looks to be Judith coming up behind me. Eventually she does catch me and we get chatting. This is the third race we've done where she sits back casually for the first while, then catches me and finishes immensely strong a good half hour ahead of me. One of those rare people who has learnt great pacing. Sadly, I'm not so good at it so we only stick together for a kilometre or so before I tell her to carry on without me as we reach a little incline over a field.

I see some holiday homes ahead, that all look deserted, and as I reach them I take a relight turn up towards the lighthouse here. I'm now at the furthest point of the whole course. As far south as possible on this little peninsula. As I go past the lighthouse there is a group of three or four people standing there waiting for another runner who give me a huge amount of whooping and encouragement. Considering the weather, I'm surprised they're so happy.

I plod on down the road before taking a turn off back down to the coastal path and leaving St Anne's Head behind me. There is a field of wary looking cows, but I just push on past them, glad to be on the other side of the fence. I get back to my plan of keeping my head down and just pushing on through.

There's no one else about at the moment, so I feel relatively isolated with my own thoughts, though that's not necessarily a bad thing, and is even part of why I do this, to get time to think to myself.

Eventually I see the next couple of marathon runners go past and luckily this time we're on a more open field so I don't have to dodge out of their way. After a while the track goes down again to the bay I'm passing and I'm starting to wonder how far away the next checkpoint is. The woman when I went through at first said it was seven miles before I'd see her again. It feels like I've done at least seven miles, yet it doesn't look to be anywhere in sight.

I try to look out over the sea and just take my mind off it and sure enough a kilometre or so later it looks to be close by when I check my map. Another runner comes up behind me just as I'm climbing up from a beach to the top of the head I'm at. I tell him I think we're near and he tells me it's just at the top of the hill. We chat on as we continue to climb and as soon as we reach the top I see the Endurancelife flag showing we have indeed reached the checkpoint.

I fill up my bottles and grab some crisps then head on. The other guy is still with me but I'm not feeling very pacey right at the minute so I tell him to go on ahead.

I'm back at the same little downhill to the country house that resembles a castle which gives me a smile again. I wonder if any one who built that could have imagined what we'd be doing running around centuries later.

There are a couple more women running up behind me so I let them pass and go ahead. Then a guy comes up behind me and blazes past. I ask if he's doing the marathon or on his second lap, he stops to talk to me for a minute and it turns out he was running with a friend who is particularly slow, but has just dropped out so he's making up for some lost time. That explains the pace he was making me feel slow with. I've talk for a couple more minutes then I point out he'll end up with another slow person if he stays with me, and he carries on his way.

I go through the town of Dale, have a quick stop for a comfort break (really just an excuse to sit down for a couple of minutes) then make my way up the road that heads back out of the town and into the woodland.

While I was in the bathroom the rain started back up good and proper, and this time it seems to be back with a vengeance. I do my waterproof jacket up, grit my teeth and push on.

I reach the gate where the marathon leaders passed me earlier and make my way over the fields beyond. The wind I serially starting to pick up now and the rain is constant so there's not really any respite. My shoes are sodden right through and have been for most of the race.

Considering mentally I'm feeling quite fatigued at the moment and wasn't particularly keen on getting going this morning, this isn't really helping. All of the eight previous races we've been lucky with the weather, and that luck did have to run out at some point, it's just annoying it's happened today.

I tell myself to stop being a whiny little bitch and carry on. No, I can't be bothered, but that's part of why I'm here in the first place, to learn to push through preconceived barriers. I make my way along, one more step at a time. 

I force myself to stop at some points to take a photo, or just try to take a little walk break here or there to cheer myself up. It half works, and the scenery is great here, so I shouldn't complain really.

This laps feels a lot longer than the last one, and that one felt quite long, but again, that part of why I'm here. I want to teach myself not to worry too much about distances, or how far it is to the next checkpoint. A mile is a mile. A kilometre is a kilometre. Me whining in my head won't change that or make any difference at all, so I need to keep myself in the moment and realistic about where I am and that so long as I keep moving I'll get there.

Sure enough after a while I'm passing the bay with the interesting shelter, and sure enough after that I'm back at the lighthouse at St Anne's Head. The people who were here earlier have now gone, which isn't surprising considering the turn in weather. All the way down this side of the headland, the rain has been coming at me right into the face from the east to my left. As I'm now about to go up the other side of the coast I'm hopeful it will ease off a bit.

If anything, it's worse I think. Oh well, not much I can do about it and a lot of the time I enjoy running in the rain, so try to bring my mind over to that way of thinking. It works partially.

I plod along, still jot really seeing anyone, but still not really minding about that. The wind carries on buffeting rain into my face and I continue just dealing with it and telling myself it's enjoyable facing the elements in this way. It works, and eventually I find myself back on the beach hiking up to the checkpoint and ready to move past to the final stage back to the finish.

I check in and start straight off. I can't be bothered hanging about and just want to get this done. I don't go straight back the way I came. This time, instead, I stay right on the coast line, rather than coming through inland. The sign said that it's about six miles to the next aid station, and if I remember rightly at the briefing that's a water stop about two or three miles from the end.

The rain doesn't want to let up at all here. It just keeps carrying on and the ground is becoming increasingly tricky to get over, making a slow pace slower. I start to feel grumpy, then just keep trying to tell myself that I enjoy running in bad conditions. The devil on the other shoulder says that I wasn't in the mood at the beginning, let alone now.

The scenery is still quite nice though, and despite the weather getting worse the visibility seems like it may be vaguely better. Vaguely. Even though I'm not far from where we came earlier, it feels like a completely different area when facing the other way and a little closer to the coast, wind and rain. It feels more visceral I guess.

After a while I see some people up ahead. I get closer to one and notice he's doing the race wearing sandals. Not even running ones, just everyday ones. Unsurprisingly, he's slipping and falling all over the place. I can't help but wonder at people who think this whole barefoot thing is a good idea and will stick to it wholeheartedly like this. Health benefits or no, this is clearly not helping this guy today, and he needs better shoes. I don't bother to ask, as I'm sure it will be met with some line about how it improves efficiency and avoids injury, but the reality is if you fall over and split your knee open it makes no difference if you're shin splints are cured and nowhere to be seen.

So I carry on and don't bother getting into a conversation. For a time we go back and forth leapfrogging each other as my pace is slower than his, but steadier as I don't slip and fall over all the time. Eventually even this gets annoying and I just let him go on ahead. I'm such a grumpy bastard today, aren't I?

I then find myself catching up to another runner who is definitely looking worse for wear. He's barely shuffling along and doesn't look in a good way, but as I pull up next to him and say hi, he's quite chirpy.

I stop to talk to him for a few minutes. I take a walk break, and this is still as fast as his running pace. It turns out he's doing the marathon, and may have overdone it with a road one not long ago. He's a big lad, not fat, but tall and stocky, so I imagine it's a lot more strain for his legs to be carting around. It's nice to get chatting to someone again all the same, but as my walking pace is his running one, I quickly wish him luck and push on. He jovially wishes me luck as well.

There is almost no one else around and I haven't really seen anyone else for ages other than the guys I've just gone past. I keep checking my phone to tell me how far through I am. I try not to do this too much in races and just go by feel as I think constantly checking reassurances from technology kind of takes away from the experience a little. So I use it, I just try not to every three seconds unless in an emergency or lost.

Today however, all my preconceptions seem to be going out the window and I don't seem to bothered about any of them, so I find myself checking how far I've gone with an ever increasing rapidity. The problem is, like a crack fiend, the rewards diminish the more I do it. At first, I've gone five kilometres. I thought it was only about four. Commendable. Ego and confidence boosting. By now, however, each time I check, thinking I've done a couple, it's barely one kilometre. So mentally I want to be at that two kilometre mark and check again shortly after. Mentally I reach for that damn crack pipe again and again.

I snap out of it after a while. It's doing me no good. And besides, I actually am getting closer to the finish, even closer to the final checkpoint. The problem is, I don't know exactly how far away I am from either, so I guesstimate, based on the rough knowledge I have on the course. The final checkpoint should only be a mile or so away by now. But it could be two. From there I think it's between two and four miles to the finish, based on how much I think I've done and the total distance of the race.

As I know I'm nearing the checkpoint, I start to pick up the pace. Only marginally, but still. My pace today has been pretty abysmal. Considering how I was doing only a couple of races ago at Sussex, my legs are really shouting at me. Then I click. Exmoor was three weeks ago. I really hammered it for the better part of that entire race. No wonder my legs are still sore. That gives me a little boost, knowing that part of why I'm slower today is that I still haven't recovered from that. In truth, it's not really an excuse, but in the mental game I'm running here, that's a viable trick to boost my confidence.

And it works, it keeps me going. It adds to the little boost I've had from the slight pace increase. I look out on the sea, at the rain patterning on my nose and feel that little bit better. I tell myself to stop moaning and just look around me and enjoy it.

Soon enough I do pick up my mood and then see the flags signifying the checkpoint. It's quite a huge morale boost, and it feels like the finish is now within my grasp. I make my way down to it, say hello and try to crack a grin.

The guys here are quite friendly and supportive. They remind me I'm now back at St Brides and I just need to retrace my steps to get back to the start and finish. I have to cross the beach here, though they let me know I can dodge around the side of it as most people have been doing. I ask how much further it is until the finish and he informs me it's about six miles.

Six? How the bejaysus did I calculate that so wrong? My head starts into a tailspin of despair. I can't believe I was so wrong, I thought there were be four miles and was secretly hoping for it to only be another two.

Whoa, hold on a sec bro. The distance is what the distance is. Stop being a pussy and a whiny bitch over it. It's not even that long, and the course hasn't even been that hard. You're only feeling like crap because your head is in the wrong place.

With the debate still raging in my mind I start off down the trail. No point standing here looking like a basket case. That isn't going to solve anything. I just put it completely out of my mind and start plodding along again.

The rain is still incessant. There is I small switchback to get up from a beach back onto the less eroded coastal path above. It's no less exposed, just less eroded. As I've slowed massively and turned around to face the wind, I suddenly feel freezing. I start to panic having suffered badly in this situation before. Then I tell myself to calm down. It'll be okay. And it is once I get to the top. I really wish I'd reproofed my waterproof jacket though.

Out of nowhere, I start to sing to myself. The first utterance is a mumbled 'this is really fucking grim'. Then I sing the same sentence. And again. I begin to make a faux show tune up out of that one sentence. For a laugh I then start up a backseat. Almost a dubstep show tune, now...I think I might be losing it.

Then something miraculous happens. The talking to myself I'd been doing earlier finally falls into place. I just suddenly start to feel calmer. I start to laugh at the stupidity of it all. What the hell was I so bothered about? This race really hasn't been that big a deal. Sure, my legs are still sore from Exmoor. But they're not that sore. How the hell am I going to cope with the eighty mile self navigated race I've entered in a couple of months if I can't even handle this?

I have to stop for a second I'm laughing so hard at myself. I must look a right nutter. I calm down, look around me, take a deep breath and push on. Not far now and I can have a cup of tea.

The rain and wind aren't letting up, though it's slowly dimmed a little from an hour or two ago, so isn't quite as driving. For some reason, it now doesn't bother me. What will be will be. Que sera and all that.

I'm back on the minor undulations from this morning and mentally tick them off one by one. Each little bay or inlet brings a smile to my face as I pass through it.

The path turns off back up to the road and I know I'm close now. A few cars go by unnervingly as it's a bit narrow here, but almost as soon as I'm on the road I take a turn off it again, back down through the woods.

There are a couple more bays. These are the two that stuck in my head hugely from the last time I was here. I'm not sure why the ones right at the beginning and end, but there you have it.

I stop at the turning point just at the bottom of one, turn around and just look back at it. I look back on the day. I look back on my failure to stay in a good mindset, and the fact that I set myself up for failure by giving up and shrugging before the race even began. I look back on eventually overcoming this in the last few miles and how that has felt.

I turn around and look forward again. I go up the final incline, down through the final wood and over the final field to collect my medal. Then I go grab that cup of tea.

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