Running through hell shouldn’t really be anyone’s idea of a good time but Hellrunner 2011 was officially awesome.
Hubby and I signed up to this one months ago, keen to take on a different type of race that wasn’t all about long distances. Hellrunner was the perfect antidote – a race of between 10 and 12 miles, notorious for its “bogs of doom” and “hills of hell”. Despite growing up in the Northern Irish countryside, I am now an unashamed City Girl, enjoying all the luxuries and creature comforts the Big Smoke can offer and actively avoiding all things mud-related. Hellrunner 2011 was, therefore , going to be something of a personal challenge. The promo video on the Hellrunner website hooked us immediately.
I didn’t train specifically for this race but instead incorporated it into my longer-term training plan for the 45 mile ultra in January. The week before I had run 16 miles so I was well prepared for the 10 or 12 odd miles that Hellrunner had on offer. My quiet confidence didn’t stop the pre-race nerves though and as we surfaced early on Saturday morning, the butterflies were fluttering wildly. We arrived at Longmoor training camp in Hampshire, the venue for the race, early, around 8.30 (runners were advised to arrive no later than 9.15 for a 10am start) and the marshalls were immediately impressive as they ushered us with stereotypical army precision into the makeshift car park in a large muddy field.
The “bog of doom” was en route to the start of the race and we join the hordes who were already nervously eyeing it up. It was 60 metres in length, the depth was unknown and there was quite an array of pyrotechnics in the process of being set up. Despite its crowd-gathering qualities, we still didn’t quite know what we were letting ourselves in for – not helped by the fact that the apparent ethos of “mile markers are for road-running pussies” meant we had no idea how far into the run we would encounter said bog of doom.
The dreaded Bog of Doom
Having visited the loo (big well done for the organisers for providing enough portaloos to ensure less than a 10 minute wait despite a snake-like queue), dropped off our bags, we weaved past the numerous fancy dressers (how on earth were those tutus going to stay on in the bogs?!) and shuffled our way to the start line. The bells and whistles of the event continued, with a red devil making an appearance, just to remind us where we were in case we had forgotten! The klaxon sounded and off we went.
I decided to start off quite quickly, knowing that the miles were most definitely in my legs and deciding to make the most of the flats while I could. It proved to be a good decision and I soon found myself trotting along at a pretty good pace. The first half of the race was dominated by several short sharp hills, which even though I was definitely in the first third of runners, created bottlenecks. Not that that was cause for much complaint – I think everyone was relieved not to have to pretend we wanted to cane it up a hill and instead huffed and puffed at walking pace.
I’m the first to admit I have absolutely zero running technique. Other than putting one foot ahead of the other and hoping I’ll last the distance at the pace I choose, I really don’t take much notice of anything else. In other words, I’ve never considered – and am certainly not at the level – that technique really forms a key part of my racing strategy. Some of the crazies taking part in Hellrunner, however, have made me think otherwise. I have honestly never seen anything like it. They were positively flying down the downhills, leaping, ducking and diving past those of us who were stumbling our way down, being very careful not to slip on a wet leaf or the like. Men that I’d overtaken on the flats and ascents, very easily made up that time on the downhills – to the point where I’d blink and I’d miss them.
At about 40 minutes in, I started to get thirsty and was relieved to see a water station right on cue. Even better news was that I’d vaguely remembered that the water station was supposedly at around the half way point. If that was the case, I was in for a very impressive finish time! I asked one of the marshalls if it was true. One confirmed, one sniggered. What did that mean?! I decided to expect the worst…
The steep ascents and descents continued and I eagerly gobbled down my energy gel one hour in. We entered a forest and I could feel the anticipation of the bog of doom and started to hear the shouts of glee from the crowds. I got to the edge, shut my eyes and jumped in.
ARRGHHHH!!! It was freezing cold and up to my waist. “Just get on with it” I was telling myself. The pyrotechnics were in full flow, blowing out smoke as we entered the nearest thing to hell that I’ve probably experienced. The crowds were roaring. I lost feeling in my legs, pretended to be enjoying the whole experience and 60 metres later, dragged myself out, thinking and hoping that the end was nigh. Surely they wouldn’t make us run much after that? Just to ensure we were having a really tough time, there was an immediate ascent after the bog of doom. I slowed to a walk, got back to flat ground and told myself that the more I ran, the more the feeling would come back into my legs – so just bloody run! A short while later, I heard more shouts from the crowd and music blaring. We must be coming to the end! The adrenalin coursed through my blood as I checked my watch: 1hr10 – I was going to get a cracking time! As we arrived at the crowds, I was met with a half-pipe, the middle of which was a large river. The runners ahead of me were sliding down the steep banks, into the knee high river and literally climbing up the other side. Oh God, I thought. I wasn’t expecting this at all! But Must Get On With It. End Must Be Just Around Corner. I took a deep breath, grabbed a branch and slid down a particularly steep section and strode through the river. Once at the top, it became obvious we had to do it all over again to get back to the other side. Gah, the cruel b*stards! I gritted my teeth and got stuck in. Once out, we were rewarded with some wonderful forest trails, one of the best bits for me, careering through the soft (FLAT!) terrain. But of course, if this race taught me anything, it was not to get too comfortable. Arguably the hardest section was still to come: what felt like at least a mile of undulating sand dunes. At the end of this exhausting course, this sapped just about the last bits of energy of all the poor souls who thought this might be a nice way to spend a Saturday morning in November.
And then, the glorious sound of the distant cheer of the crowds and fireworks crackling in the sky – it could only mean one thing – and this time there was no added value cruelty – the finish line was in sight and I’d left enough in the energy reserves to enjoy the obligatory sprint finish. I checked my watch to see the damage: I’d clocked 1 hour 34 minutes (and found out later that I finished 23rd woman) and at that point concluded that running through hell wasn’t half as bad as I thought it was going to be!
