Thunder Run – Aron Hinds

You’d think it would be difficult to distil an entire weekend into a few words for a blog post, but in this case, I can summarise it in just three:

Type 2 fun

For those who don’t know, there are officially (according to me and a couple of people on the internet) three types of fun.

Type 1 is genuine outstanding amazing enjoyment that you enjoy while you’re doing it. You’re going to look back on this moment and still absolutely love it. This is what life’s all about. You’ve got a grin from ear to ear, the endorphins are flowing and you are literally loving life. In running, these don’t come round that often. In my years of running I could probably count these runs on one hand. Every now and then, running just feels easy, and you feel like you’re flying. Your legs are separate from your body, nothing hurts, and you just float along, with time to check out the view.

The opposite end of the spectrum is Type 3. It’s not fun at the time, and you’re going to look back on it and think “Why did I do that?” I’m thinking major injury on a mountain, getting so lost you think you’re going to die, being stuck in the middle of an electric thunderstorm in nothing but your tiniest shorts and a vest. Complete misery. This is essentially where I was in the middle of Thunder Run 2017. I’d fallen over early into my second leg, because my shoes had about as much grip as Bambi’s hooves on ice. After my head-torch died the instant I turned it on, I was left with a backup torch that was the equivalent of trying to read a book with a match. From the other side of the room. And less than half way through the event I swear we’d seen a month’s rainfall and I was convinced I had trench-foot.

It had all started so well. As everyone arrived in camp to pre-pitched tents (thanks to Mike, Gary and Graeme) there was nervous banter, and most people had a few drinks to settle the nerves. An incredible example was set by Poppy and Iris, the true running heroes of our trip, on the Pyjama run. They beamed as they completed the course with grace and determination despite the cold and wet. The rain didn’t dampen anyone’s spirits. Despite being woken up by a biblical downpour in the middle of the night, the runners who emerged bleary eyed from their tents the following morning were still full of naïve optimism, excitement even. Then to Rosliston parkrun, a lovely course with trees and woodland, and an assortment of animal sculptures. It was a pw for me by several minutes, but it was absolutely wonderful.

Then the sun came out, the first laps got underway and the excitement built. I was third to go for our team, and I really enjoyed my first lap, the 10k off-road looped course was technical, but runnable, it was a test, but I ran relatively conservatively and felt confident I could keep it up. I didn’t get too excited as I knew there was a long way to go (even though this left Nicola disappointed that I didn’t quite live up to my apparently excitable blog-persona). At this point we were probably in type 1.5 territory: pretty fun while it’s happening, and you know you’re going to look back on it fondly.

Then things started to go wrong. The rain returned. The course started to get churned up. Runners returned with pale, grim expressions, the horrors of what they’d experienced etched onto their faces. I shrugged this off. I’d been out there. I knew what the course as like. It couldn’t be that bad, could it? You might notice a hint of trepidation behind my big grin in the picture below. I was putting on a brave face, but little did I know what was to come.

Standing in the holding tent waiting to start my second run, the tension was palpable. Runner after runner came back covered in mud, horrified expressions on their faces, handing over to team mates with pleading words. “Take it easy out there.” “It’s treacherous.” Like conscripts waiting to go over the top, each of us looked around, trying not to show any signs of weakness, unsure of what was to come. I saw fear in the eyes of those around me.

And then, from the gloom, emerged Becky, looking strong, composed, flying past other runners, no signs of the trauma that other runners had experienced. Things were looking up. I took the baton, strode confidently out of the tent, and picked up my pace. In less than half a mile I’d slipped around 5 times. This wasn’t going to be easy. It was turning dark. As I turned into the trees for the first time I tried my headtorch: It flashed twice and went dark. I negotiated a few twists and turns, leaping majestically over tree roots (there may be some artistic licence here), overtaking a couple of runners who were struggling with the mud, before trying again. Same two flashes, same darkness. Not a problem I thought, I had remembered to pack a spare hand torch, it wasn’t great, but it was marginally better than nothing. I flicked the switch and got to work. Most other runners were moving tentatively and they all looked up pleadingly when I offered a “well done” as I passed them. By now my shoes were completely clogged with mud, and changes in direction were increasingly difficult. At this stage I was still glancing at my watch, hoping to keep some level of consistency with my first leg, desperately hoping to pick up the pace in the second half as I had done on my first lap.

That’s when it happened. I had just come past a group of three runners, eager to look like the pro I felt, I leaned into the corner, hoping for some traction and my legs slid out from under me. I landed on my side, luckily the conditions meant there was a soft landing, but I was absolutely caked in mud. Both hands were completely covered, but miraculously my slightly-better-than-useless little hand torch was unharmed. Result. Sort of.

I jumped up, shouted an “I’m fine” to the concerned runners behind me and cracked on. The rest of leg two was miserable. Each corner felt like turning a bus through 90 degrees on a skid pan. Even the sections that were runnable before were now practically impassable. Genuine type 3 fun. In fairness, I was only 5 minutes slower, but it felt like a lifetime. I handed over the baton to Claire, gave her the now compulsory “Look after yourself”, and trudged back to camp.

I’m not proud of what happened over the next 5 or 6 hours. I may have had a bad run, and had to wait for an hour in the cold and rain for a shower, but I think I allowed that to affect everyone else I came into contact with. I told everyone how horrible it was, swore like a trooper, generally wore my moodiest face and allowed people to see a side to me that they probably didn’t deserve. For a brief moment after being woken up in my tent at 2am for leg number 3 (after lying down listening to the rain for just an hour) I’ll admit I thought about jacking it all in. After discovering I was around two and a half hours early for leg 3, I was pretty terrible company. I was convinced I was never going to look back on these moments fondly.

The next 12 or so hours changed everything. I had completely taken the pressure off myself for the third run, and with a borrowed head-torch (thanks Curtis) and a completely different outlook for the run, things gradually started to get better. Taking no chances, when I approached a turn, I came to a complete halt, before changing direction and setting off again. I cheerily chatted to runners around the same pace as me, and offered genuine encouragement to those I passed (particularly the solo runners who absolutely amazed me to keep on going in those conditions). My pace slowed by a further 5 minutes on the third leg but I absolutely loved it. I could have been disappointed as I crested the ridge at 8k hoping to see the sunrise, only to see that it was still some minutes away, but I wasn’t. There was a peaceful contentment. It was almost reassuring that there wasn’t a Hollywood moment where the sun broke the horizon, the birds started singing and everything was suddenly better. It was still pretty miserable. Just a little less miserable than it had been a few hours earlier.

Even a complete nightmare experience with the showers didn’t dampen my spirits. After a half hour wait for the water tanks to be changed, and a further half hour standing half naked in a shower hoping in vain for some water to come through, you would be forgiven for thinking I was miserable. In truth it wasn’t ideal, and I apologise for those who had to put up with my ‘piquant fragrance’ until the end of the day. However if I hadn’t had all this trouble, I wouldn’t have been enjoying a jacket potato with cheese at 5am with a solo runner (whose name I’m truly sorry to have forgotten). She was so perky, so upbeat and genuinely positive about the event, and about every single runner’s efforts. I felt a twinge of guilt that I’d be so consumed in my own despair not long before, and felt a renewed wave of optimism. As I skipped back to camp, dirty but not broken, I was genuinely happy. I was excited to share my experiences, and try and encourage others to enjoy what was left of the event.

As day broke on Sunday, and people emerged from their tents, sharing their kettles, sharing stories of their night runs and sharing the banter and camaraderie of a group brought together by a tough experience, I remembered why we do this. We may have started as an ill-equipped bunch of runners in a field, but we left as a much closer club, as friends. Trench humour was in full flow, with jokes at almost everyone’s expense, but all of it was good natured. We may have been four separate teams on paper but it felt like one big family.

I had the absolute pleasure of the final lap, the glory leg, bringing the baton home for the team. Everyone I passed, or who overtook me, looked tired, but happy. I encouraged people to work on their finish line poses, and practice their grins. “Enjoy your last lap!” I called out, and I genuinely meant it. I had a big grin for the entirety of that last lap. Even a slight stumble which resulted in a low squat with hands in the mud didn’t faze me. I considered doing a Roberta and smearing the mud like war paint on my cheeks, but instead wiped my hand on my shorts and got going again, a wry smile creeping onto my face. In borrowed shoes (thanks again Curtis!) I found I had slightly more grip, and aiming for the sloppiest, muddiest sections (hopefully not created by Gary) I found I was actually relatively confident with my foot placement. I caught and passed Russell, who set off a few minutes before me, and just enjoyed myself.

As I passed through the camp for the last time, Laura offered a big shout of encouragement, and as I rounded the bend for the last hill there was a huge cheer from the assembled Harriers. I felt like a celeb. Running down the last straight, passing a man dressed as a banana, I opened out my stride, waved at the crowd and grinned my way across the finish line. I absolutely loved it.

As we all know, next goal wins is the most important rule in kids football, and amongst 24 hour racers, the equivalent is next lap wins. So it was with great pride I brought the baton home as the first HPHer to secure the win for ‘Hyde Park Invitational’ (just winding you up Graeme). There was still time for a genuinely exciting finish. After 24 and a half hours of racing two of our teams were neck and neck, with the first home out of Russell and Caroline set to be claim the spoils for their team. Russell dug in to hold on for the win, and ‘You Can Run But You Can’t Hyde Park Harriers’ were worthy winners ahead of ‘Hyde and Sleek’ with a winning margin of just over two minutes. Sara rounded the event off for ‘Hyde Park All Stars’ as the final HPH finisher, with a massive smile on her face.

By now you might have guessed that type 2 fun is somewhere in between type 1 and 3. It’s not really that fun while you’re doing it, but in your memory it morphs into something magical. You can’t stop talking about it. The bad bits are already fading into the distance and you know it was worth it. Needless to say I’m going to be back next year. Who else is in?

Next up for me is Race the Train in just over three weeks’ time. Hopefully that one is a little less eventful!

Aron Hinds

https://arongoesstreaking.wordpress.com/2017/07/27/thunder-run/#more-82