Silver at Lundy

Roughly a year ago, my mum put a question to me: would I like to run the Island of Lundy race with her in July 2022?

To those of you who don’t know, my mum started running fifteen years ago, and since then, she’s never stopped. She’s run four out of the big six marathons with her sights on completing them all (provided one day she lucks out in the ballot for a place at Tokyo,) and has a number of less famous 26.2 milers likewise under her belt. She’s beaten the bus, run the grizzly, and more or less competed in all the local races here in East Devon at one time or another. Not only this, but she’s pretty fast too, often finishing near the very top of her age group.

I myself only really took up running at the start of 2020. Since then, I’ve competed in the grand total of one Park Run. After Googling Lundy Island (not quite sure how, but I’d never heard of it before!) I took a brief look at the race’s website to see that it was an off-road half marathon. My mum explained that she had always wanted to go to Lundy Island, and figured this was as good a chance as any to see it. And so, somewhat apprehensively, I agreed to go with her.

The race was almost a whole year off; figuring it was something only future Dan had to worry about, I cast it out of my mind and more or less forgot about it. Fast forward to the start of the summer and I realise that the impending date of July 10th was growing steadily nearer. Time to start training.

Now, I probably run on average twice a week. Sometimes life gets in the way and I only manage the one, and other times, usually when the weather is a bit nicer in the summer, I might go on three. My mileage is nothing to write home about; I normally will run a 10k (6.2 miles) during the week after work one evening, whilst taking the legs out for a short 3.5 mile jaunt over the weekend. During the winter I tend to stick to roads, but come summer, with the common right on my doorstep, I often hit the trails.

The furthest I’ve ever gone in one run is 20 miles back in 2020. During that summer I regularly ran half marathon distances, back when there was little else to do on a Sunday. But since the end of Lockdown, I’ve only gone that far a few times.

So, I’m by no means some crazy ultra-endurance runner. And though I do run a lot by most people’s standards, when compared to enthusiasts, I merely dabble in the sport. What I do have going for me though, is speed. Speed which I apparently have no right to. Six-minute-miles is pretty much my standard pace, and that one Park Run I did last year, I came in a respectable 3rd out of 450 people, setting my 5k PB of 18:46.

And so, somewhere in the middle of May, I began to train for Lundy. There was no structure to my training, no plan. I just figured I should gradually increase my mileage until I hit the distance I needed, and that I should focus on trails. Likewise, as I got to about a month out from the race, I increased my frequency to 3 runs a week.

Unfortunately, I had to take about a week and a half out at the start of June when Space Tour hit the stage. And so, with roughly a month to go, I found myself way behind where I figured I needed to be. I increased my mileage appropriately in order to catch up, topping out with a 14.5 mile run across the common one Monday evening after work about a fortnight before the race.

I didn’t really know what to expect from Lundy. I knew it was only a small Island and that the route consisted primarily of a lap around it. The interconnected Dalditch, East Budleigh, and Woodbury Commons where I did the majority of my training are fairly hilly, and reasonably rough going. A typical 10k from my house up to Black Hill Quarry is over 200m of elevation, and if I go as far as Woodbury Castle, you’re looking at 300. Not quite Everest, but a decent climb, nonetheless.

So going into the week before the race, I was feeling relatively confident. I figured if anything, I’d overtrained. That was until my mum sent me a blog post written by someone who’d done it a few years earlier, and by God, did it sound brutal! Starting to worry, I did a bit more research. I checked out segments on Strava and looked at the elevation of the highest point on Lundy. Realising that the island topped out at 127m, I figured it couldn’t be that bad. Right?

Anyway, race day comes around. Early start. We leave mine at just after 06:00 and drive up to Ilfracombe, arriving just before 08:00. Ferry sets sail at 09:00 and we make landfall at around 11:00. We check in for the race, collect our numbers, and lather on the sun cream. It’s a balmy 24oC, apparently the hottest conditions they’ve had in the five years the race has been running. But it feels hotter. There’s next to no shade across the whole island, and it’s a pretty still day, so very little wind.

All morning, there had been talk amongst people as to whether they were going to race or simply enjoy the run, stopping to take photographs etc. I figure I’d set off and see how it went. I scoff a banana, make sure I’m hydrated and strap a belt with some holstered water bottles to my waist which (thinking I’d been fairly shrewd) I had topped up with isotonic sports drink.

We line up at the start, listen to the briefing, and without much ceremony, we set off. Knowing it’s a mistake to start out too fast, I figure my best bet is to run at a comfortable pace and just see how things go. I know the first stretch is a wide-open gravel track, but after that things narrow off, so there’s little space for overtaking. I decide to make sure I’m not caught up in the herd when the path tightens.

A hundred yards in and I’m fairly near the front of the pack. I figure I’m in the place I need to be, but something doesn’t quite feel right. I know I’m holding back; I’m taking it too easy. To run at the pace I’m comfortable with, I need to speed up. So I do. I hit the pace that feels right, and all of a sudden, I’m running shoulder to shoulder with the guy in first. But I still feel like I’m holding back. I ease into things, find my natural rhythm, and what do you know? I’m in first place.

Us front runners pull away from the rest of the pack pretty quickly. I have a bit of a chat with the guy just behind. He points out the incredible pace we seem to be pulling, but it doesn’t feel like I’m pushing too hard. The miles start to tick away. Suddenly we reach the end of the island. It’s mile four. I’m still in the lead. Behind 3rd place, everyone else is waaaay back. I figure at this point, I don’t really have a choice anymore: I’m racing whether I like it or not!

The course veers right, following the clifftops as it doubles back down the east side of the island. The track narrows. The terrain starts getting rougher…  a lot rougher. I’m trying to keep my pace up, but it’s getting hard—not because I’m running out of steam, but because the ground is so uneven, it’s getting harder and harder to keep my footing.

The path narrows further. It starts undulating. Suddenly we’re scrambling over boulders. There’s a sharp camber down to the left, and so each plant of the foot feels disjointed. Then, suddenly, I feel something rip in the sole of my foot. I can’t tell for certain, but I suspect, correctly, that the thick leathery skin on the ball of my foot has sheared away from the soft flesh underneath.

It’s sore, but not agonising. I keep running, feeling it with every step, but only five miles in, I can’t give up. Especially when I’m in the lead! I fight on, the path rising and falling in a brutal scramble up and down the cliffside. Then, approaching mile six, I lose my footing. I slip and go down, making a surprisingly soft landing halfway inside a gorse bush.

The guy in second rushes to my aid, but I insist he overtake and go on without me, explaining that I’ve ripped the sole of my foot. He presses on, and I head after him, steadily watching as he pulls away. As I really begin to suffer, I keep peering back along the cliffside, figuring its only a matter of time until the rest of the pack starts to overtake me, but to my confusion, there’s still no sign of anyone coming up behind.

Realising that I’d made the mistake of drinking too much before the race, I quickly duck into a bush at the earliest opportunity and relieve myself. Still no sign of the guy in 3rd at this point. I press on. The eastern side of the island is leeward facing; there’s absolutely no wind and its just after noon. The sun is oppressively beating down on me as I fight my way up and down a rugged and brutal trail.

Eventually, nearing the south end of the island, just past mile six, I spot a runner behind me. He is gaining. The path is still too narrow for overtaking, so, not wanting to hold him up, I shout back at him, telling him to call out when he wants to get past. He calls back saying that he’s not ready yet. The race continues.

 We hit the south end of the island. There is a savage climb up a set of steep wooden steps and I’m reduced to a walk. I hit my lowest point in the entire race and begin wondering if I’m going to make it to the end. But the guy behind me seems to be suffering just as much, if not more, because despite the fact that I’m not even running anymore, I start to pull away from him again.

Finally, I reach the top, ignore the aid station I figure is strategically positioned for lesser mortals, and start running again. Looping around the southern tip of Lundy, I hit the clifftops on the west coast. I’m struck by a breeze, and my word, it feels magnificent! The trail opens up again, the terrain becomes way more forgiving. The views are incredible, and I’m pulling away again, still in second place. I hit eight miles and know I’m now more than halfway.

I’d love to say that at this point I started enjoying myself again, but the fact is, the 3 mile stretch down the east side was so unforgiving and unrelenting, that at this stage I feel absolutely blown. The race is still on, but now it is one of attrition.

Finally, I hit the north end of the island again, but before I can double back down the wide gravel path that we first started out on, I have to descend all the way down a long stretch of steep stone steps to the northern lighthouse. I manage to run all the way down, knowing that throwing caution to the wind is a good way to make up a bit more time. I pass the guy in first as he is on his way back up. He’s walking—I can’t make up my mind if that’s a good or a bad sign.

I hit the bottom, turn around, and begin the climb back up to the top. I manage to jog the first half, only slowing to a breathless scramble when things get crazy steep. I pass the man in third near the top as he begins his descent. Back up on the clifftops, I set off down the straight towards the south end of the island, and open the tanks.

The last three miles are among the hardest I’ve ever run in my life. My watch tells me when I hit mile 12. I feel a bit of elation as I realise there is only one to go, except, a hundred or so yards later, I pass a checkpoint where a guy holds up three fingers to me. Surely, he can’t mean there are three miles left!?

I know the race ends with a small loop around the southern end of the island, and so I can’t work out if it is one or three miles to go. Veering right as I begin the circuit, I enter a field of sheep that are blocking the gateway ahead. Herding them out the way, I’m faced with no other choice but to clamber over the five-bar gate in my path; either that or I risk letting thirty odd sheep escape.

Hitting the west coast again, I turn south. Runners are coming at me now head on. They’re at least six miles behind me in the race, but I can’t tell if they are the middle or the end of the pack. I gaze ahead, seeing the vast extent of track still left in front of me. My watch is saying I should have about half a mile to go, but I know it is more than that.

I’m dying at this stage. I’m so dehydrated, but I can’t bare to take another sip from the dregs of sickly-sweet sports drink left in my bottles. The heat feels unbearable now that I’m out of the wind again, and the trail just seems to go on and on. But then, I turn the corner, hitting an aid station I’d passed long ago when running in the opposite direction, and I realise I’m on the final straight. I speed up, peeking back over my shoulder; it’s been several miles since I’ve seen the man in third.

Dashing past the church, I fight my way uphill for the final furlong, emerging into the courtyard where we started the race, only to find it bizarrely quiet. Finally, I cross the line! Second place. Silver!

I suppose not too many people ever have a podium finish in a half marathon, but it was a bit of a surreal experience in this case. Given that there weren’t really any spectators on the island, the only people waiting for me at the finish were two of the race organisers and the winner.

Barely able to stand, I chug a bout a litre of water and chat with the one man who beat me. Steadily other people start crossing the line, whilst those of us already finished go crash in the shade. Almost an hour later, I go grab my wallet and emerge from the church just in time to see my mum cross the finish.

My final time was 1:51:36.8. Given that I’ve run the same distance in 1:27 before, it goes to show how absolutely brutal the course was. The guy who beat me clocked in at 1:47:50.3, which as it turns out, is the second fastest time ever recorded for the course. Had I been running the year before, I’d have had the winning time! But I’ll happily settle for silver.

In the aftermath, I finally removed my trainer to find a sock soaked with blood. Fortunately, I stopped feeling it around mile eight, and though the skin had separated from the ball of my foot, it hadn’t peeled back, so in the week since, it has quite happily reattached. In the days that followed, my legs felt like I’d done a heavy leg day in the gym, something I’ve never had from running before.

I’m not sure I enjoyed it. It was quite possibly the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life; certainly two of the toughest hours. But I figure I’ve done myself proud. I’ve got a nice trophy and a medal in the shape of a puffin. And I figure it’s safe to say I’ve seen Lundy Island now. And though I didn’t see any puffins whilst on the island, I’m pretty sure I caught sight of one in flight from the ferry as we were sailing away.

One thing is for sure: it was an experience!