Roseland August Trail Plague 100K - Race Report

Several weeks since the RAT Plague and it feels like a distant dream - did it actually happen? My family whisked me off for a 5 day experimental camping excursion within 24 hours of finishing which left me in a state of perpetual jet lag with little chance of recovering the day of lost sleep. But the event itself was most instrumental in it’s ethereal status as I try to recollect. The thousands of steps; the distant headlands; running through the night; being waited on by some of the biggest names in ultra running in the south-west. For a virgin 100km runner this truly was a dream. The one physical factor that repeatedly brings me back to reality a malingering pain in my butt following a dramatic tumble from the cliffs!

On the steep ascent to Nare Head. My youngest daughter (14 months) chose my calf guards from a selection. She hasn’t mastered matching skills yet. But this has now become my lucky combination! Photo copyright Charles Whitton Photography.

In case you go no further with this report let me start by saying… I urge you to try the RAT! A great event with incredible camaraderie from competitors and marshalls alike. The challenge is of your choosing with 11, 20, 32 mile and the infamous 100km. Mud Crew Events have chosen one of Cornwall’s lesser known gems in the Roseland peninsula. A stretch of coast offering scintillating views and arduous rolling terrain. Yet the course is rarely more than a couple of miles from a point of interest offering plenty of mental targets to help break down the distance into manageable chunks. I live in Cornwall and get to train on the Roseland so my view is biased but look at the feedback flooding in from the event and you will get an idea of what a special race this is rapidly becoming on the ultra calendar.

So, come 16th August, I was finally ready to earn my 100K wings. The Roseland August Trail Series Plague awaited. Having deferred from the previous year I thought I would be much better prepared. However, thanks to a spring of inclement weather, which curtailed events and the ever demanding parental expectations of having a baby in the house my training mileage was well down. My three week taper also played havoc with my brain as I nursed unexpected strains and pains on the occasional three mile commute home from work. One thing was for sure. There would be no daytime sleep ahead of the 12:05am start at Porthpean Outdoor Education centre. It was daddy day and I had kids to entertain. In last minute tradition I threw my kit bag together and tried to get some shut eye once the kids were in bed. No sleep came as the heart pounded and the head recited checkpoint timings and hydration plans. I hopped on the Night Riviera train to St Austell, hailed a cab, and made the registration five minutes before closing at 11pm.

Organised chaos! Last minute packing. 

My first surreal moment came in the briefing as running superstar, Izzy Wykes, came over and asked me if I was OK. At the back of the hall typically flustered I couldn’t figure out how to turn my compulsory glow stick on. She demonstrated and clearly had a lot more strength than me! This would be very much part of the course as throughout the event I got to meet other runners from the circuit that have inspired and influenced my own decisions to become a wannabe ultra-runner. Should have packed a pen and paper for autographs.

The night air was warm, the sky clear and the forecast great. I chose to wear a mesh top under the compulsory puke green running vest we were all given to signal us out as Plague victims! My kit comprised: 2XU compression shorts; Salomon Trail shorts; X-socks; Compressport calf guards;  several Inov-8 wrags; Montane marathon jacket (wind proof); Montane minimus smock (waterproof); Montane prism gloves; NoRain arm warmers; Salomon S-Lab 12 (the old one); Inov-8 Trailroc 255.

Somewhat experimental I decided to carry a bottle at all times and had invested in a Scott Jurek signature handheld grip from Ultimate Direction along with two new kicker valve 20oz bottles. I would keep one bottle in the front of my pack and carry the other, rotating as required. I always get lazy as the miles clock by and if a bottle has to be pulled from a pack to drink I don’t bother. So ensuring I always had one at hand, literally, I hoped I could stay on top of my hydration for once. I also had an emergency 1 litre bladder with Nuun electrolytes. Two checkpoints were nearly ten miles apart so I was conscious that 40oz might not be enough. Especially if the morning sun was hot.

For nutrition I had packed three Bounce balls, two Chia Charge flapjacks; two Cliff bars; a marmite sandwich with homemade rye bread; and a slab of Willie’s dark chocolate. No where near enough calories but I was relying on the checkpoints to have some good food on offer. I was determined to stay clear of quick release sugars, so no gels or fizzy drinks and I was wary of caffeine although I did have a cup of tea ahead of the start. This hydration/nutrition plan was novel to me but anything had to be better than recent events!

I had a clear goal too. Fifteen hours. Which at roughly 60 miles, point to point, would equate to fifteen minute pace. I had maintained similar pace over the Brecon Beacons in the spring so this felt realistic. The unknown was how to achieve this. I could either run out fast and give myself a cushion to survive on the return leg. Or try and maintain a steady pace over the full distance in the hope my body would not give up on me. This must be the predicament every runner faces stepping up to unknown mileage. I felt the second option carried far more risk so had in mind to run 7 hours out and 8 hours back.

Midnight selfie. Ready to rock and roll… provided I remember to turn my nightlight on!

At 12:05am, marvellous Mimi sounded the hooter and we were off. All that tension in the air just exploded as 78 victims bounced down the hill to hit a gridlock at the first style. Other than a quick tarmac descent to Porthpean beach the pace generally remained slow over the first five challenging miles as the narrow coastal path, and those in front dictated a walk, jog, jog rate for the uphills, downhills and levels respectively. This was probably a good thing. My legs felt sprightly and would gladly have adopted a jog, run, jog rate were I free to run my own pace, probably at my future detriment. How ironic I should find myself behind At Your Pace teamster, Andy Jukes, from Ropehaven woods to Pentewan. One advantage of our single file train, I discovered I could dim my head torch to conserve battery and run from the light around me. There was lots of nervous talk breaking the silence of the night and regular warnings would pass down the line of approaching badger holes and exposed stakes. I nearly took my first dive as my non-aggressive lugs slid over a wooden step board made damp by the dew. Conscious of conserving energy over these early miles we all took the numerous sets of steps at a slow pace which made them pretty easy work.

Heading in to the first checkpoint at Pentewan in the early hours of Saturday morning. Photo copyright Charles Whitton Photography

Just under an hour in we arrived in Pentewan and I was feeling fresh. Keen to find my own pace over the next section to Gorran and make up some time I legged it down the road to the checkpoint. No need for a refill as I switched bottles. So a quick hello to Tom Sutton and I dibbed my chip and was on my way. The next six miles were probably the fastest with considerable road and only a couple of steep climbs out of Pentewan. The narrow path also opened out into expansive rolling fields.

Inspired by Scott Jurek’s nighttime antics in Eat and Run I played cat and mouse with the runners I broke away from as I killed my head torch and ran the fields by moonlight. Part incentive was again to conserve battery. I was keen to make dawn without having to rifle in my pack for the spares. On the steep angled climbs to Penare Point the first issue of the night arose. The inners in my TrailRocs were sliding around. The same issue occurred on my last training run but there was no time to wear in alternative shoes. I was concerned the inners were sitting high up my heel cup forcing a slightly elevated angle on my achilles which could become an issue later in the race. Not a lot I could do about it. No drop bag, no spare shoes.

Dropping into Mevagissey I was proffered “Good Luck” from a few kids sat on a wall drinking. Not the heckling one would expect from early morning imbibers. Mud Crew and the Plague’s reputation had clearly proceeded us! Then on the switchback gardens at the far end of town a runner came flying past from the road and went straight through a gate into what appeared to be someone’s property. I called out but to no avail. As I reached the road I heard a gate creak and assumed he had righted his navigation error.

This was all familiar territory for me and I soldiered on at a steady pace. Rounding Chapel Point I would occasionally glance back to see a few headlights not far behind but ahead seemed eerily quiet. A feeling that was emphasised as I entered the church at checkpoint 2. No other runners were in attendance. I was greeted by Duncan Oakes and Dave Rowe who waitered on me in style! There was an excellent spread of food on offer but for now I just wanted to fill my bottles and keep on moving. How about that to have the Downs Double record holder filling up my bottles for me. I congratulated Duncan on his recent victory as he dished out some encouragement. I got the impression I was much higher up the field than I realised but I did not enquire for fear of the psychological implications. I got back out on the coast path before the next runner came in.

The long gradual climb to the Dodman followed. I could finally make out one headlight about half mile ahead and several lights spread out behind. A fast downhill followed the Dodman as I made inroads on the light in front. Beyond Hemmick beach I realised there were in fact two runners and on the undulating terrain I soon caught them up with the plan to just run with them for a while. But immediately they stood aside and let me through. I recognised one of them as Lloyd Purvis, an experienced local ultra-runner who had come third in the previous year’s Plague. The other being Doug Murray. I felt obliged to keep up my pace and ran fast over the fields to Porthluney. Did this mean I was running quite high up the field? That certainly wasn’t part of my game plan and I panicked. Negative thoughts. Was my pace too fast that I might burn out. Stoked by inexperience, my confidence waned and for the first time I felt fatigued. There was little time to analyse as beyond the beach came one of the steeper slogs of the night, up the side of a field through long dew laden grass. Glancing over my shoulder I sensed the other two runners reeling me back in as my uphill pace faltered. So I ran hard downhill into Portholland, along the lit slipway, over the cliff and then… OUCH!

We had been warned in the briefing about the prom around Portholland and the rocky scramble at the far end was probably the only treacherous part of the whole course. Perhaps I went at it with too much exuberance. Where I thought there was rock on the cliff there was in fact just vegetation and as my left foot went into free fall the rest of my body followed. Nothing to grab onto I instantly thought: ‘shit, this is going to hurt!’ A couple of seconds of air and then thwack. I hit the beach, my butt landing on a boulder at full force while fortunately my pack cushioned my back and my head landed clear of any rocks. I groaned and lay still wondering what damage I had sustained. Two words dominated my thoughts: ‘Game Over!’ Gradually I pulled myself up. My elbow, shoulder and hand were all scuffed with blood. My butt was agony but miraculously I could still move. My first instinct was warn the two runners behind me and as they rounded the corner I guided them down the beach route. We started the steep climb out of Portholland together but I didn’t feel well. My lower back hurt on every step and emotionally I was welling up. I let them go ahead and as I hung back, shock took hold and thoughts shifted to my family and what could have just happened.

The technical section to Portloe checkpoint went in a blur as I weighed up my options. DNF wasn’t one of them. The faint glow of the harbour lured me on as I made haste over the rocky paths. Entering the checkpoint, all I knew was, I needed comfort. It came in the strangest of ways. Eyeing the canvas of food on offer I saw the makings of a peanut butty. A white bap filled with peanuts! It worked. I felt reinvigorated. The pain was put aside and I was quickly back on the coast path. Another cliff edge encounter followed as I briefly lost the path on Jacka Point. The clear skies had really pulled the temperature down so I donned my arm warmers and threw my jacket over the top of my pack. As I fought with my jacket on the steep clamber, Robert Hicks bounded past looking very fresh. I expected he would be the first of many to overtake me. My fall gave me a reality check. My enthusiastic pace over much of the last 15 miles had pushed my average down to 12:15. Well inside my projections. I needed to stop racing and start focussing on surviving.

I feel a connection with night running. It is not a time to savour views, but with limited field of view I find it easier to clock off undulating miles than in the light of day. With several descents including a rare switchback I soon made contact with Lloyd and Doug again as we tucked into the brisk ascent of Nare Head. Lloyd seemed to drift back on the climb, while Doug and I got confused about the path over the headland. The light from my torch was starting to dwindle, my eyes were drying out and focus was limited. This made it challenging locating the best path through fields without an exit point to target. Fortunately as I scrambled through some brambly undergrowth, Lloyd joined us again with a hand torch that illuminated the route ahead.

I was still hurting on the climbs but I had focus. With a long gradual descent off the headland, I saw a perfect opportunity to stretch out and sure enough by the time I reached the Nare hotel I was on my own again. My torch flickered. Fortunately purple and blue hues began to break the eastern skyline. My headlamp had lasted the night. Just! As the eyes tried to adjust to a wider field of vision in the strengthening light strange figures emerged from the undergrowth. Several sticks were mistaken for snakes while ferns took on the eerie illusion of pixies! The hallucinations had started.

So being greeted by Batman, Robin and Wonder Woman was a welcome joy as they dished out a delectable banquet at the Portscatho checkpoint. I was ravenous and hankering after more comfort food. A cup of vegetable soup and white bap hit the spot so well I had seconds, and then a slice of pizza. Cups of coke were dancing in front of me craving to be picked. I resisted. As I struggled to refit my TrailRoc inners Batman hinted that I should be on my way. That question of position reared it’s ugly head again. As I headed out Doug was just arriving. No sign of Lloyd and I later learned that he had dropped with a recurring injury.

The next eight miles were out and back to St Anthony’s head over meadows and gentle rolling coast path. A fast section with several teasing headlands and eye catching views of untouched hidden Cornish coves accentuated by the golden hues of a glorious morning. As I passed Towan Beach the lead runners came into view on the return leg. What a surprise to see it was two ladies, Sarah Morwood and Charlie Ramsey. The entire field had been chicked twice over! I stood aside and applauded them through. Fatigue weighed heavy on my legs and walking the short ascent to Killigerren Head the first male came past. It was reigning champ, Rich Keefe. He looked strong and gave me encouragement to keep on running. So I tried to get back into a rhythm. Soon enough Rob Hicks came bounding by looking as strong as he had when he had overtaken me at Portloe during the night. He was making some serious headway on the leaders.

I arrived at St Anthony’s Head in 6 hours 23 minutes well ahead of projections. Race organiser, Ferg, was there with Izzy topping up the water of one other runner, Ben Stone. I couldn’t resist regaling them with my Portholland tumble to which Ferg responded, “Congratulations! You are the first person to have fallen off there.” Bonus! No need for a refill, so I said thanks and was straight out of the checkpoint ahead of Ben. The maths was simple. I appeared to be in 5th place. (I later discovered this was thanks to one of the race favourites, Robert Mann, retiring at the half way point)

Elevated by delusions of a top 10 finish I felt revitalised and fuelled with quasi-energy sped off through the bracken and back out onto the coast path. Alas, the bubble soon burst as I caught my first glimpse of a dark headland far away on the horizon. Nare Head looked distant and unattainable. I just couldn’t comprehend running to it, let alone the additional 22 miles that followed. As I contemplated a plan, Ben overtook me, shortly followed by Doug. “The first of many”, I muttered slumping into the first of several lows that would engulf me through the day. The TrailRoc inners were a mess again riding well up my ankles. I ripped them out in frustration and threw them in my pack. My feet were not happy and sand from Pendower Beach that sat under the inners now rubbed between my toes. I promised the feet a fresh pair of socks at Portscatho. So a game plan began to take shape. Get off this headland as quick as the legs would allow, then refuel and freshen up at the checkpoint. Work on the next part of the plan in clean socks at least.

Return leg passing Towan Beach. Blue sky Cornwall! Photo copyright Charles Whitton Photography.

Had quite a weight to bear with my lucky number 88 (bingo slang!). Heading into the high grass behind Towan Beach. Photo copyright Charles Whitton Photography.

It was thanks to the other fifty or so Plague victims I passed on this first section of the return leg that I made good time as we exchanged encouragement. Couldn’t be seen to be walking at the top end of the field. Although I did trek over Porthmellin Head as I scoffed into my marmite sandwich. Fellow Truro runner, Dave Cudby, was looking strong thirty minutes or so behind me. We had chatted over a hot tea ahead of the start as he shared his thinking on going easy on the downhills to conserve the quad muscles. I hoped my excessive hill training would serve me well and see my quads through. Downhill speed was my strength and the only way I made up time. 

My physio, Paul Coker, was quick to acknowledge my position in the field as we crossed paths. Hat tip to Paul, as his skills got me to the start line of many races this year and it was great to see him burying the demons of the previous year’s DNF despite a lack of training.

I stuck to my promise at the checkpoint. Ben and Doug had long gone and chase was not an option. First up another cup of soup and roll. Then I changed over my socks, packed away my head wrag and donned a visor. Wired up my iPod and just as the next runner arrived I was on my way. A ten minute turn around but I felt better and the legs seemed appreciative of a break. Neil Young rang through my ears, the morning skyline unfettered by cloud, the sun radiating early morning warmth, the sea tranquil. Nare Head didn’t look such an imposing proposition now and I promised myself a treat if I could make the Nare Hotel in eight hours (3.5 miles in 40 minutes).

There were still a few runners at the back of the field making their way out and the rallying continued. Near Creek Stephen I passed another Bosvigo dad, Paul, who I had finally met at the tea tent. He was pushing tight to the cut-off on tired legs having run Race to the Stones the previous week. He was shortly followed by the sweepers. Determined to get my treat I ran quite hard through the overgrown fields to the Nare Hotel arriving fifteen seconds late! Still worthy of a bite of Chia Charge flapjack. Nare Head beckoned and I was actually quite relieved to get back into some steeper climbing although my butt soon reminded me of the overnight fall. I developed a rather awkward gait on the climbs to minimise the pain. It was effective. Above Sharnack Point I looked back for the first time since leaving Portscatho. The coast  path wound around the low lying cliffs behind me. It appeared empty.

On the climb to Nare Head with Pennarin Point in the background. On closer inspection there is a tiny dot in the field beyond the river valley on RHS of the photo. That is the “red runner”, Dan Murdoch. My chaser for the entire 32 miles of the return leg. Photo copyright Charles Whitton Photography.

Portloe was quiet and I had no intention to stick around. I topped up my water, munched a few tortilla, thanked the staff and left. Looking across the harbour I caught sight of a runner in red - the same guy who had entered Portscatho as I left. I reckoned I had five minutes on him. Exposed on the steep rocky headlands the sun was baking. What I would give for an ice cold drink. I buried that thought. Fatigue was a constant battle on even the smallest climbs but my legs were working well on the descents still.

At Portholland, Andy Goundry had set up a surprise checkpoint. I filled my bottle and grabbed a few brazil nuts which, unfortunately, were way too dry to swallow.

On West Portholland beach admiring the rocks from which I fell. Photo copyright Mud Crew Events (http://mudcrew.co.uk/)

I stopped to photograph the cliff I had fallen from. In the light of day it didn’t look so dramatic but still sent a shiver through me seeing the boulders my head so fortunately missed.

Landed somewhere on those boulders on the beach…

Next target was the Dodman about 3 miles distant, followed by a long downhill to Gorran Haven. Without the comfort of inners, my feet were finally succumbing to hot spots and there was no option but to stop at Porthluney beach and slap on some Vaseline. A chance to take in the impressive Caerhays Castle, radiant in the morning light. The field beyond the beach was full of highland cattle. Timid they might be, but with calves amongst them, I took a very wide berth as they looked quite uncomfortable with my presence. At Hemmick beach I noticed a runner bearing down on me at speed. It was not the red runner, but Jeremy Warren from SARC. He mumbled something about running the first half too slow as he sped past me on the steep scramble to Gell Point.

On the final push to the Dodman my trance was broken by the ringing of my phone. It was Nadia. The girls and her planned on driving up to greet me at the finish. I was surprised my pace was still floating around 13:30 but reckoned with the condensed ascent over the last miles to still finish at 15:00.  Pace was slowing rapidly, my back was very painful and I was repeatedly thinking about walking in. Nad offered encouragement and from nowhere I welled up. Thinking of my family and that fall perhaps. Or just the emotional high of 30 hours without sleep. We said our farewells and with renewed ardour I strode on to the Dodman.

Again the high was rapidly quashed. For the first time I couldn’t generate the speed I had hoped on the descent. My legs were aching from top to bottom. Following a scramble over the rocks the tranquil beach of Gorran came into view. I promised myself a chair and a long rest at the checkpoint and did just that. Duncan and James (Turner) fed me watermelon as we chatted about the Exmoor Ultra we had all run in the spring. It was great to finally introduce myself and the guys were so friendly. I could have sat and chatted all day but soon enough the red runner, Dan Murdoch, arrived and sat down for some waiter service. He was shortly followed by the leader of the Black run (32 mile course), Michael Robinson, who was in and out very quickly. After ten minutes in a chair my legs seized instantly as I tried to stand. Inspired by Duncan and James, I was keen to be on my way ahead of Dan and put some psychological ground between us. Walking in was no longer a plan. I felt I owed it to the locals to put in a worthy performance. I shuffled out passing countless tourists making their way to the beach looking like I had spent too long in the saddle. Cowboy gait was born! The climb out of the village soon got the blood pumping and I was back to a canter on the cliff top.

My mind focussed on small goals and gradually I ticked off each of the villages along the route.

Portmellon Cove ahead of Mevagissey. One of the unfortunate tarmac sections that my legs complained about! Photo copyright Charles Whitton Photography.

Atop Mevagissey I am pretty sure I passed the Portscatho superheroes in their civilian garb. The mind was all a blur though. I do recall a young boy helpfully running beside me through the gardens and guiding me to the steps leading to the harbour. He was pretty insistent that I follow the switchbacks so no chance of doing a Kilian. Several runners overtook. None in puke green though. I was still in eighth. The steep drop off from Penare Point was the hardest of the day. I adopted a switchback route across the field to minimise the jarring. Then once I had climbed above Portgiskey I promised myself a treat if I could run all the way into the Pentewan checkpoint.

With only five miles of steep climbing to go I decided it was time for some sugar. Tom Sutton, still manning the fort along with Nicky Taylor, was quick to offer me a couple of gels while Nicky dished out some coke. The fizzy pop worked wonders as I power marched out of the village. I had looked back atop Portgiskey and could see no Plague runners. I felt confident I could hold my position for this last tough section and worse case scenario I estimated 25 minute pace for the last five miles to break fifteen hours. Surely that was a walk in if necessary? Even with a handful of demanding climbs and several hundred steps to conquer. Fortunately pace calculations soon became irrelevant as my watch abruptly died. The Ambit battery had made it to thirteen hours but now I was just focussed on crossing that finish line. Time and pace were irrelevant.

The quads felt every descent of those last five miles as I contemplated Dave’s sagacity. Advice I should perhaps take on board for the future. Up, down or level, it no longer mattered. Running had become pain management. The goal was finally the finish, the reward a cold beer. Now I could dream about that ice cold drink. “Ice Cold in Porthpean”. On the steps to Black Head I pictured Captain Anson battling with the ambulance in that sand dune. My task was nothing in comparison! I took to counting steps on the climbs and it seemed to be working. I promised myself not to look up till the hundredth step which in most cases got me to the top. Looking up generally resulted in hands on legs, cursing and a long breather contemplating how to negotiate the remaining few steps.

At Ropehaven I stumbled upon a surprise checkpoint and threw down another cup of coke. Fifty yards up the road it came straight back up! I tried one of the gels Tom had given me instead. Washed down with some water from my bladder that seemed to settle. Then at the foot of Silvermine steps I found Ben Stone! He was beat. I urged him to push on with me up the steps but soon enough he drifted back and I found myself back in seventh.

Once I hit the final downhill to Porthpean the sense of achievement sunk in. All that was left was one final long climb to the finish. The MudCrew motto rang in my ears: “we don’t do easy!" All pain had subsided as elation began to take over. I power walked into the hostel grounds. A spectator advised me the finish was around the corner and encouraged me to run. The support from the crowd was overwhelming. The girls hadn’t made it, but that wasn’t surprising as I had finished in 14:05. Way beyond my expectations.

Success! 100K in 14:05:12. 7th finisher (and 5th male) out of 62 (16 DNF). Results here.

The ice cold beer was a long time coming as I showered and sought medical attention for my back. Diagnosis was terse - I ran 40 miles on it so cannot be serious. Following a week of intense pain I discovered I had inflamed my sacroiliac joint. Quite common following a heavy impact on the butt. I think the pain emanating from my lower back and bum acted as a focal point throughout the race and helped minimise pain that invariably arose in my ankles, knees and quads at different points during the race. A few trips to RockDocUK and I was primed and ready for the next challenge.

The dream had become a reality and when the beer was finally poured it wasn’t ice cold but it sure was good as I savoured every drop.

Standing safely on the West Portholland cliff edge in the light of day. I believe my tumble from these rocks in the middle of the night was a positive contribution to my overall performance. Photo copyright Mud Crew Events (http://mudcrew.co.uk/)

Now come on! If you have read this far you MUST be thinking about running the RAT next year? Go check it out…