Written by Tom Wright - http://life.tomwright.me.uk

When I am demoralised in an endurance race, when my mental strength ebbs to yet another low point, I will focus my thoughts back to Saturday 10th May 2014. Atop Fan-Y-Big, fighting gale force winds and desperate to relieve myself the Brecon Beacons dished out one last humiliation. An insult that drove me to better myself and struggle on. To dig deep. To get off that wretched mountain and finish.

Look familiar? The only difference to the Black Mountains… this time I got to wear shorts! Photo copyright Jon Phillips at Muen Photography. 

MightContainNuts’ events clearly have an attraction for incremental, nay, atrocious, weather! This was the summer edition of the newly elevated Brecon 50 Ultra (previously run as a 40 mile course). As we gathered around Matt for the event briefing, a faint mist rose from the dew laden lawn basking in the early morning sun. “Take heed of the mountain forecast,” Matt announced, “and pack accordingly.” This sounded all too familiar. But surely the weather couldn’t surpass the snow, windchill and hail that we endured on the Black Mountains two months earlier?

Following my rabid performance at Exmoor I had assured myself I would start slow and work my way up from the back. This was little helped when I found myself at the front on the start line. The line being just that. A yellow line of chalk across a tarmac lane bisecting the words “MCN” and “START”.

No confusion there then!

With apprehension in the air we communally counted down from ten as a runner in a superhero mask and cape took up residence at the front for a photo. And then, to the sound of the hooter, we were off.

Stick to the programme… time to ease off the throttle and let Mr Superhero and co. set their own pace to the mountains. Photo copyright Jon Phillips at Muen Photography. 

Keeping to my plan I ignored the hasty pace set by the elite runners and before we had reached the end of the lane nearly the entire field of 67 had passed me by. Only then did it dawn on me that I was about to embark on only my second 50 mile race. The frantic rush of the past 48 hours to actually get myself, with correct kit for a change, from Cornwall to Talybont-on-Usk had left little time for contemplation. Fitting, as the 50 miles was not to be. Those stalwart companions of Welsh climate, wind and rain, would soon be setting a severe logistical challenge for the race organisers.

Sure it looks pretty. But not really what I travelled up from Cornwall for. Give me mountains any day!

First we had several miles of canal to traverse. More then enough to convince me I never want to run the GUCR! Quiet, scenic and ever so flat. The first climb was Tor-Y-Foel, a detached marilyn on the eastern flank of Talybont reservoir. The climb was long and slow, levelling out several times to give the misleading suggestion we were nearly at the summit.

After 10 minutes of climbing I though that was the summit up ahead. It was in fact just the first of several levels on our way to 550m.

One thing was for sure. The higher we climbed the stronger the wind and the greyer the skyline. So I chose to don my Montane Minimus smock and tucked in behind a sprightly group of younger runners to gain some shelter. We finally passed the cairn on the summit at 551 metres and began the descent to our first checkpoint. Headfirst into the intensifying wind and a building storm.

Setting up the weather for the rest of the day the storm attacks. It was hard to pick up speed in that headwind! Photo copyright Jon Phillips at Muen Photography.  

Looking down on Talybont Reservoir from the Beacons Way. Twyn Du, which we would be descending later in the day sits behind.

The course briefly joined the Beacons Way before veering south-west onto another exposed plateau. The terrain varied between loose rubble and waterlogged mud. At times the mud had no traction and the only option was to run in the undergrowth on the side of the track. The wind was building all the time and it was a relief to get into some woodland shelter as we descended to the next checkpoint overlooking the Pentwyn Reservoir. I utilised my descending skills to their fullest as I passed a number of runners only for them all to pass me by as I fumbled at the checkpoint to top up my bottle with some High5 energy powder. Only to kick it over before I put the lid on and have to start again! I reminded myself I was here to see the sights and rather than racing off to catch the group I took a few photos of the reservoirs bordered by wooded hillsides, followed by a brief diversion to find a hedge.

Pentwyn Reservoir from the second checkpoint

We now faced a long gradual 300 metre climb to the trig point above the slopes of Twyn Mwyalchod The ground was littered with streams and water pools. Grounding was a lottery. Sometimes a hard tuft would lay just below the surface, other times the ground would sink thigh deep. At other times I had to lift my legs high to avoid tripping on tall exposed tussocks. There was little path to speak of and progress was a slow combination of jog, power walk and occasional scramble as I tried to zigzag my way around the most expansive pools. This was really hard work and I felt despondent at the thought of another 40 or so miles of similar terrain. I now understood why this was a popular military training ground. Reaching the cairn was a light relief as the terrain finally gave way to a rocky path on the Craig Fan Ddu ridge. However we were now exposed to the elements as low cloud swept in reducing visibility to about twenty metres. Fortunately I was accompanying a marathon runner who trained regularly in the Beacons and knew which path to follow. The wind was persistent and heavy rain pounded our faces. The marathon runner was moving too fast for me and I soon lost contact as he was swallowed by the cloud.

Another runner came up on my shoulder and I stood aside to let him past. He stopped and shouted above the wind, “Are you all right?”. I explained I was letting him through. “Oh, “ he exclaimed, “ I just want to stay with another runner.”  The penny dropped and it dawned on me the potential severity of our situation. We had a cross wind gusting to 60mph and were running only feet from the edge of a near vertical 100 metre drop. I am used to being a solitary runner. That is the way I generally train and spend most of my race time. But this was very different and we took solace in each other’s company. The wind was too loud to chat further. I tucked in behind him and we set off again. As the slow ascent continued onto Rhiw yr Ysgynfarnog I was frustrated by the heavy cloud and lack of view. I had hoped to experience the majesty of the Brecon Beacons and on a clear day the views from this ridge would be spectacular. Today that was not to be.

My thoughts gave way to a far more pressing matter. Over the last 2 miles my gloves had got progressively wetter and now with the added wind chill I could feel the tips of my fingers starting to go numb. I was wearing Montane Power Dry gloves and had a pair of Prism gloves in my bag. My circulation is not great and I get cold hands very quickly. Ahead of the Black Mountains Ultra I invested in these two pairs of gloves and they served me well in wind chill exceeding minus ten. However, that day it had been dry. I decided to wait till some shelter at the checkpoint below Corn Du, which was about a mile distant, to change over to the warmer Prism gloves. The numbness was intensifying and I soon realised I needed to act at once. There was little shelter on the exposed ridge as I crouched behind a large boulder. I wrestled on the first glove but I couldn’t get the left hand glove over my thumb joint. My hands were wet and it was as though they had swollen. Several runners appeared out of the mist and were soon gone again. I pulled hard as a forceful gust ripped the glove from my hand and straight over the edge of the precipice. Panic! I cautiously stepped to the edge and could see the glove resting fifteen feet below. I hesitantly scrambled down the steep side to salvage it. My hand was really cold now and, frustrated, I threw the glove into my pocket to deal with at the checkpoint. Worse, my fingers were so numb I couldn’t clip my pack back together. I was furious with myself. I had invested in warm gloves to prevent this occurring. I slowly jogged on clutching my pack with both hands to stop it swinging from side to side - the weight of which could easily pull me over the edge. Right hand was warming nicely, left hand numb. Negative thoughts took hold. Fifteen miles in. Could I really keep this up?

"I really am a wimp when it comes to the cold. I run mountains to enjoy the scenery not to freeze to death!"

Morale worsened at the checkpoint perched on the Windy Pass (Bwlch Duwynt in Welsh). It offered little shelter to fix my gloves and pack. Testament though to the commitment of the MCN team. A one man tent was pitched with a single marshall inside to count us off as we checked in. I knew from the course map we had only 2 miles downhill to Storey Arms. Maybe I would find more comforting shelter there. Despite the discomfort from my left hand I was determined to make up time on the 2 mile descent. Perhaps catch a few of the runners who had passed me on the ridge while I was floundering with my gloves. However I lacked my usual nimble balance as my hands clung to my pack to keep it on my shoulders. Also a large number of slow moving tourists accompanied by wayward dogs crawling their way towards Pen-y-Fan made a challenging obstruction.

A Marshall making his way up the path was flagging runners. “We have closed the western section of the course!” he announced, and instructed me to head back east after the Storey Arms checkpoint. My mind went into overdrive. The doubts all at once amassed support. My premise for this event was scouting Fan Fawr, Fan Llia and beyond. With that part of the course closed was there any point attempting to battle on against the elements?

I huddled in a ball, clutching the plastic cup tightly, under the shelter of the burger van, whimpering like a stray dog. Drenched, wretched and very cold. A sorry sight for the vast numbers of tourists gathered at Storey Arms. Plenty of runners passed by. The queue to buy a cup of hot tea seemed to last an eternity but finally both hands were warming and foiled by the comfort of Primaloft. I shivered uncontrollably. The smell of cooked burgers emanating from the van was strangely alluring despite seven years of pescetarianism. This is ridiculous! What am I doing here? I got to my feet and solemnly made my way 400 yards up the road to the checkpoint. I was going to retire. My first DNF. Beaten by the Welsh mountains.

But then, by a strange twist of fate, the clouds dispersed and a glimmer of sun penetrated the drab skyline. For the first time in several hours my body felt warmth. I weighed up the consequences. I had travelled to the event alone so a retirement would mean sitting under a foil blanket until I could hitch a lift back to Talybont. How could I ever explain to my kid I had travelled all this way only to drop out because I was cold? What kind of role model would that make me? Time to man up! First a handful of food; then I hurriedly stripped off my wet top and donned my thick mid layer and buff;  gloves and smock back on; hood up; and I was on my way. Power walking the stepped path to Y Gyrn and then back up to the Windy Pass.  After all with the re-route the course would only be about 36 miles. That meant I was over half way. A good thing… Surely?

We climbed 1500 feet over the next two miles and progress was slow. I overtook a few runners I recognised from earlier in the day which made me realise how much time I wasted on the ridge and at Storey Arms. Then as I approached the checkpoint I saw a figure gracefully skipping down from the ridge above. I recognised Dan (Dougherty) instantly and said a quick hello. I knew he would be out training on his local “hills” today but what were the chances of bumping into him! He was having concerned words with the marshall. Sounded like someone was in trouble up on the ridge. Inspired by Dan’s brief presence I settled back into a running pace as I dropped into the saddle between Corn Du and Pen-y-Fan. Corn Du summit was also off limits now - the weather playing further havoc with the course. Some downhill momentum and I hit the steep climb to the highest point of the Brecon Beacons (at 886 metres) with some gusto. I knew once over the summit I had a couple of miles of descent to the next checkpoint so perfect opportunity to make up some time.

There was a brief, near vertical, scramble off the summit and then a long gradual descent. The clouds appeared to be lifting and breaking up and I sighted several runners dispersed across the ridge ahead. The cross wind however was relentless and at times ripped through the legs destabilising my balance. The only way to keep ground was to follow the lead of those ahead of me and lean into the wind! Finally lee side of the ridge we had respite from the elements and a chance for me to let the brakes off. I must have passed 10 runners and felt confident I was moving back up the field.

Following the checkpoint we were again re-routed. Instead of taking Bryn Teg ridge to Cribyn, which was deemed unsafe in the cross wind, we instead routed up the slightly sheltered Roman road heading for the col between Corn Du and Fan-y-Big. Along with Fan Fawr and Fan Llia, that’s four Brecon peaks I wouldn’t be bagging today.

It was a gradual 1500 feet climb over the next 3 miles. On the way up, and free from the ringing wind in the ears, I struck up conversation with father and son, Jamie and Joe Hilton. This was Joe’s first marathon! Get that… a 50 mile mountain race on the Brecon Beacons as your first marathon. Oh to be young again! We got onto food, specifically baby food. I figured I best munch on something as nutritional management had gone wayward since glove-gate. As if by mental trigger, all at once my body shut down. Minutes earlier I had felt fine but now all energy in my legs dissipated. I couldn’t keep pace with the Hiltons and quickly lost contact.

On the Roman Road heading for the col between Fan-y-Big (on the left) and Cribyn (on the right).

The Roman road although not steep was technical with jagged rocks a plenty. I recalled my physiotherapist’s remarks only 72 hours earlier: ‘You will be fine to run… Just don’t fall on your knee again because it will be agony if you do!’ This was just the sort of terrain my tired legs would trip on so I continued to walk cautiously, even when the slope levelled out. I figured I could catch Jamie and Joe on the long descent off the mountains.

Hitting the col meant only one thing… wind… and it was now blowing gale force constantly. Another checkpoint sat in a gully. One man and his tent. I started thinking that ‘Might Contain Nuts’ should actually read ‘We ARE nuts’! Respect to another brave and committed marshall. Passing the checkpoint was a significant milestone. It meant the ensuing100 metre climb to Fan-y-Big would be the last of the day, and the next checkpoint would finally see me off these mountains. Which in this weather would be a huge relief! The steep climb was very slow as I kept glancing over my shoulder to see a few other runners making ground on me. I repeatedly stumbled in the savage wind and occasionally cursed at this Welsh torrent with shakespearean aplomb. Arm waving aplenty. The summit came and went and once again I found myself on a ridge in thick cloud with very poor visibility. With no warning at all I had the urge to go to the toilet. No bushes up here but no one could see me in the thick clag. And it was then that the Brecon Beacons had one last laugh at my expense. I will skip the finer details suffice to the say the swirling water leaping out of surface puddles should have been a clue to the intensity of the wind. Glove-gate had been monumentally surpassed by urine-gate on Fan-y-Big! Coughing and spluttering and manically cleansing my face with my wrag I vowed to get off this cursed mountain as soon as was humanely possibly.

There were just a few peat bogs to negotiate first. Dropping five feet down into a thick lake of mud to then scramble up the other side wondering all the time if I was even close to the correct route. Fortunately I spotted another runner making speedy headway through the bogs and fog. He had found a good route and I followed close behind. Coming off Carn Pica was the steepest descent of the day. Muddy and rocky. A handful of runners were taking it easy. I did not. Once gravity had control I just had to go with it and hope I didn’t hit a hidden rock as I took a parallel line through the bracken. Reckless? Perhaps but since reading “Feet in the Clouds” I rarely look back on these hair-raising descents. As we descended below the clouds I passed a lot more runners but no sign of the Hiltons.

Hitting the checkpoint was pure solace. No more gales. Warm sun breached the skyline. The finish was only 3 miles distant. I could hear an ambulance siren on the breeze. A marshall explained someone was in trouble with hypothermia. Perhaps the same runner Dan had seen? Earlier in the race that could so easily have been me I thought. Relief to be off the mountain in one piece.

A tarmac road circumvented Talybont reservoir. Followed by some woodland track and one last subtle climb that I had to take at a brisk walk. No-one behind me, no-one up ahead.

One last climb and then downhill all the way…

Soon enough I was back on the canal towpath we had all traversed about 7 hours earlier. I tried to run it in on the last mile to the finish but my legs were beat so a few yards of walking broke up my pace. There was one last scramble up a bank into the back garden of the outdoor centre and I put on a little sprint to the finish to the sound of the cowbell. Just shy of 36 miles and 8000 feet of ascent the course fell short of the Black Mountains ultra seven weeks previous. The intensity of the conditions made it feel a whole lot tougher!

Was I glad to see that sign… This has been a very challenging and soul searching experience!

There was no way I was catching the Hiltons. Jamie and Joe finished a good six minutes ahead of me in tenth place. Great achievement for a first marathon! I was however, much to my surprise, the next runner home. Twelfth place in 7:41. Of course my mind wandered with what ifs as I made my way back to Cornwall. But that is ultra-running. If a race went to plan it wouldn’t be half as much fun now would it?

Round 1 and Round 2 done. Not sure I have the constitution to take on the Brecon Winter 50 if this is what the Brecon Beacons dishes out in summer! 

I should just add that the team at MightContainNuts did a stirling job in horrendous conditions. They responded quickly to the unexpected changes in the weather with course amends. All the marshall’s were keen to check we were OK to continue and clearly had every runner’s welfare as their number one concern. Anyone going in to a mountain ultra on the Brecons must have some expectation of challenging conditions. That after all is why I ran with a heavily laden pack. I just hope that when I return to Brecon in September for my next challenge the weather is just a little bit kinder and I actually get to do some sightseeing!