The RAT: Plague 2024

 

• Distance: 100km / 62 miles
• Elevation: 4,010m / 13,156 feet
• Elapsed Time: 15:07:11
• Estimated calories: 8,381
• Total male finishers: 77, of 109 starters (30% DNF)
• Placement: 24th overall male, 4th in age category

Pendower, one of many bays on the race route, with Nare Head in the distance

The past year has been all about the 100-milers; my training has been focused on quantity of time on feet, mostly at slow pace, and building the strength for the hills. With three centuries under my belt now, I feel to some degree experienced in the challenges, but certainly not a master of the art. In amongst them I've repeated a 34-mile race, a distance I enjoy, and completed various 10k-ish races for fun. Yet, I've never done a 100km event; a 56-mile race early in my ultra endeavours was close, and I did a self-planned 100km run as a training goal some time ago, but as a race distance it isn't familiar territory.

The Plague is 100km trail run along a section of Cornwall's south coast, and part of the Roseland August Trail (RAT) festival, which features several shorter distance events and a 24-hour endurance event. For me, this followed on from the hugely challenging 100-mile Ultra Trail Snowdonia in May. At a mere 100km/62 miles it seemed like it should come for free, in training terms. The Plague stretches through one night as it starts at midnight, but doesn't even get near 24 hours, let alone the 48 of the UTS; along with less than half the elevation, it would appear to be the easier challenge by some margin.

The plan

When filling my year ahead with 100-milers, I became fixated on the Arc of Attrition, a race that follows the coast path around the tip of Cornwall in late January. I love Cornwall, having spent my later school years living there, and holiday there often. I had failed to secure a place on the Arc for 2024, so when I discovered a 100km event called the Plague was a feeder event (i.e. one that would offer ring-fenced entry), I began forming a plan.

The festival site would be in Porthpean, near St Austell, and the Plague race would begin at midnight on the Friday. Camping was on offer for the weekend, so we could turn up as a family, I'd clear off for a fun run along the coast, arrive back Saturday afternoon, and we could enjoy Saturday evening at the site and head off to the north coast for another week of holidaying afterwards. Expecting a sunny early-August weekend, this sounded ideal; the prospect of seeing the sun rise as I jogged around the beautiful bays of the south coast; arriving back to be greeted by my family and eating burgers and drinking beer in the afternoon sun, and heading off to find the surf the day after.

The preparation

It is becoming clear that always the worst part of my race preparation is the week leading up to it. It should comprise finalising logistics and a race plan, organising kit, interrogating the route, plenty of rest, high quality sleep, hydration and good nutrition, arriving at the start line with a clear head and fresh legs.

I reached race week with little thought having gone into training; whilst to some extent this one should have been for free, I am learning that the big distances aren't that simple - the extended tapering time before and recovery time after, eats big chunks out of what might otherwise be training weeks. Squeezing three 100-milers into a year has left the time inbetween quite pressured to make meaningful training gains whilst also having time to recce routes and the like, and that is without factoring in family life. The Plague was a bonus event, thrown in the mix, with the assumption I could just turn up and do it.

The few days before, in my reality, were dominated by tying off work concerns in preparation for a change in job role and frantic holiday preparations so that we as a family could get away for a week. I only glanced at the race rules two days before, leaving myself only time for an Amazon Prime order to cover any missing items for mandatory kit, and I didn't even look at the route. My sleep was as poor and inadequate, as usual. 

Race day

Our plan to arrive during Friday afternoon evaporated when loading up took over two hours more than planned, and we headed in to appalling traffic and a 9-hour drive down the M6 and M5. We arrived at the festival site mid-evening. Still plenty of time, but far from the relaxed time I had in mind. I set about eating, prepping kit and grabbing a short nap before the 11:30pm race briefing.

I arrived at the race briefing on time, but it was already in full flow. I'd missed some of it, and didn't really listen to the rest as my head was spinning. I hoped that the combination of following people and relying on a gpx file on my watch would ensure it worked out. I didn't know where the checkpoints were beyond a quick glance when coordinating my supporters.

Waiting for the start

Smoke and a beating drum

Darkness had set in, and after the briefing we all headed for the start line where flaming torches made for an eerie, smoky startline, and a slow beating drum set a serious tone. As we stood waiting, the occasional competitor on the Bring Out Your Dead 24-hour endurance event would appear from the lower part of the field and head to the start/finish line, before resuming with their next repetition of the 5-mile loop.

As with every race I start, I was undecided about where to position myself. This was my first realisation that I had no idea about pacing a 100km run, especially on different terrain. I didn't want to be held up, so I inched forward to be around the top 20.

The race

We set off, and the pace through the festival field and onto the initial road section seemed really fast. In the bustle, I had ended up around 30-40th, and suddenly felt worried that I would get quite tangled in the pack. I stepped up the pace significantly so that I could reclaim an appropriate position before we hit the narrow coast path, and got myself back up to around where I'd planned to be.

The first section of the coast path was enclosed in hedgerow, dry, dusty mud under foot, and various trip hazards of stones, roots and holes. We had to hold single file, but everyone was moving quickly around me. It was reasonably warm and very humid in amongst the vegetation. The path snaked around, switching from downhill to uphill with almost no flat ground.

As my muscles warmed up, what had seemed a very quick pace began to feel quite comfortable and fun; I knew I wasn't racing over two nights, so I didn't need to be as conservative with my output as I had in recent events. I was confidently skipping down the technical trails, and with my poles in hand, I was making light work of the hills.

A few miles in, and I was listening to conversation happening in front of me; one guy was saying how he'd started too far back on this event on a previous year, and almost got timed out as he was caught up in traffic with no space to overtake. I noticed that a significant gap had appeared in front of the bunch I was trailing, and they were starting to slow a bit. Pondering his words, I took the next chance I saw to overtake a few of them, and then set about catching the group in the distance.

It was fun keeping the pace up; I didn't expect to hold this pace for a long time, but thought it would be beneficial to make myself some space before the first checkpoint, and get out in clear air. It didn't take me long to reach some more people, and having got into a rhythm, I started passing them too. My confidence grew, and I kept pushing. I thought I was finding people of a similar pace, and when I made a small navigational error at Dodman Point, I slotted in behind them; from there it was a period of trading places with the same folk for a while.

I was finding my poles quite difficult to manage. On previous long runs, I'd found them helpful when settling in to a long climb, and then folding them up for descents, either keeping them in my hands or, for more technical descents, putting them into my waist band. But on this route, the frequency of changes between ascent and descent was too high to warrant folding poles. They were valuable for the steepness of the short climbs, but a frustration and risk when trying to negotiate awkward descents in narrow spaces. I kept them fully extended in my hands at all times, but I couldn't quite determine if they were bringing an overall benefit.

The humidity was exceptionally high; relief came whenever the path opened out above the cliff tops, but the many sections enclosed in hedgerow were stifling. I was wearing a thick t-shirt, with the event-mandated vest on top. I was working hard to get fluids down, but just an hour or so in and dehydration meant I was finding it hard to eat anything. I reminded myself to keep trying - nibble small amounts, keep sipping the fluids.

The first mental battle began when I started worrying I'd missed a checkpoint. I vaguely recalled Pentewan being mentioned as a checkpoint, but I was heading out the other side and up the cliff; had I missed it? What would the consequence be - disqualification? I didn't really have a solution other than to keep running, so I just pressed on. I also recalled them saying checkpoints were around every 9-10 miles, but I really should have listened properly.

It was a strange feeling, jogging through quiet little harbours in silence, and then disappearing into overgrown paths snaking around the cliffs. Everyone was lost in their own thoughts as the fatigue of the night time set in. I still felt confident, but the heat and humidity was taking its toll. I knew I must stay on top of hydration, but I felt I was sweating out a lot of fluid.

Mevagissey

I arrived at the first checkpoint knowing I was making good time. A volunteer who saw me rushing to get fuelled and back out the door identified himself as a former winner of the event, and encouraged me that to do well, I need to to not overcook it; he pointed out the length of the race, and that moderating my approach would bring rewards. Sound advice, I really should have followed it.

The constant up and down of the paths, combined with a fair degree of technical difficulty, was coming as a bit of a shock; I struggled to believe, after my recent training and events, that it could present a big challenge, but given the faster pace and lack of opportunity to settle in to a rhythm, it was hitting hard. The climbs started feeling tough. As I reached around 1/3 distance (20-miles), some way from ticking off the first marathon, things took a bit of a turn. I began to feel that the pace I was carrying was going to be very difficult to sustain for even the first half, and even finishing that half started to appear incredibly challenging. The terrain was relentless, and unlike the 100-mile events I was becoming familiar with, the checkpoints were not a place for a rest, just a quick refill and pause to eat. I knew that fuelling failures were likely leading me into a difficult place, so I resolved to eat and drink my way back to life.

A few miles from midway I reached the Portscatho checkpoint. I rushed through my refuelling once again, probably too quickly, and set out through the village. At the end of the village, a friend I haven't seen for over 20 years was waiting, at 6am, to wave me through. This was a boost, but I looked a wreck. I'd followed the route plot on my watch in preference to the straight line of the path, finding myself on the (technically correct) coast path, but fighting through 7ft bracken laced with brambles. I emerged with blood pouring down my thighs and shins - quite the sight to present to my schoolmate.

My race plan included a change of t-shirt and socks at midway. I hadn't realised it would be a minimal, outdoor checkpoint, so wasn't really the place to stop for long. Also, as it was a relatively short distance from Portscatho, people were not pausing there, just showing their race number to the stewards and heading out again. I took the opportunity to ditch my t-shirt; I knew running in a vest risked chafing from my pack, but I was sweating out too much fluid and needed to cool down. I saved the sock change for the return visit to Portscatho.

Crossing a short section of sand

I was really struggling. Quite a number of people had passed me. My legs were stiffening up, and I couldn't hold a decent jog. I was trying, but it just wasn't working. I again put it down to fuelling, and accepted that all I could do was just keep putting the fluids and food in, and wait for my legs to return.

Things were improving a little on the return to Portscatho; I gave a more buoyant greeting to my friend, who was again waiting, and then headed into the village to the checkpoint, where I changed socks and attempted to eat a bacon butty and drink a coffee. The butty came with me, but my mouth was too dry to get it all in, so some of it went in a hedge. My legs started to return, and I went in search of the places I'd lost, gradually passing the same people and clawing my way back up the field. My confidence grew, maybe I'd fixed it with fuelling. I just needed to keep this steady pace going to the end.

Leaving the Portscatho checkpoint

I had been moving well for a while, steadily catching up and passing others on the Plague, whilst also being frequently passed by those on shorter distance events that had started in the morning. I was being very efficient at the checkpoints with a quick refill, grabbing some snacks, and heading straight back out. My hope was that I could sustain this to the end, and I was being very focused on holding the pace and wasting no time during the stops. Some of my family support crew intercepted me on the coast path above Gorran Haven, with the rest providing encouragement as I arrived and departed the checkpoint. I was very much in the zone, not much time for pleasantries, and pushed on to try and keep hold of my improved position.

A broad summary of the out-and-back route:

• first quarter: tight, relentless up and down technical paths
• second quarter: steady climbs up and down with the odd beach
• third and fourth quarters: reverse of the above

By the time I hit the final quarter with its relentless up and downs, things had started breaking down again. My legs had gone, and this time I lost my confidence that this could be fixed by fuelling; I knew I'd overdone it early on, and combined with dehydration this was starting to look unfixable. Once again, I was dropping places. I kept putting the fluids in, but I was struggling to eat. I was impatient at the checkpoints, not wanting to lose more time and places, but this wasn't a strategic approach. As mid-morning arrived, the sun was bright, and I was exposed. I was slow to react, delaying applying suncream until much too late, and my shoulders burned.

Struggling up to the finish (with sunburnt shoulders)

I steadily lost more time and more places, but had no fight left to recover them. The ups and downs of the final sections were becoming super-tough in the sun, and I increasingly wished for the finish to arrive, yet those final hills were numerous and brutal. Eventually, after dropping back down to near sea-level yet again, a climb turned out to be the final one. My kids appeared and told me it was just one more field to go. It was a tough final plod. I checked that nobody was about to steal yet another place from me, and as nobody was close behind, I allowed myself a gentle approach to the finish. I still mustered a little sprint at the very end before collapsing in a heap.

Reflections

Broken

The over-enthusiastic effort at the beginning had set an expectation of how well I might do in this event. I'm fairly convinced that a better race strategy would have seen me significantly faster overall; managing hydration better, conserving strength in my legs, capitalising on my hill-climbing strength. It was a quite a disappointment to finish over an hour slower than expected, and especially to have seen all those places disappear into the distance. Despite a difficult week, I think I'd arrived with the legs to do well, but my strategy was a long way from the best. 100km may be significantly less than 100 miles, but it is still a very long race, and fighting hard over positions before 1/3 distance, and shortcutting the refuelling stops, showed a lack of appreciation for the scale of the race.

More important than the result was the experience; I'd picked this out for the beautiful location, and expected to enjoy it, but my failed strategy stole the enjoyment - I'd struggled a lot through the middle section of the race, including the sunrise and many beautiful coves, and the final miles were torturous.

The jostling over position at the start was probably reasonable; getting in the right position is important in order to not be compromised by slower runners, but once I'd got into the right zone I should have backed off the pace and resumed my own race. Maybe then I'd have had a more enjoyable night and day. Some lessons painfully learned, but hopefully that sets me up for a more enjoyable time on January's Arc of Attrition.