Meet Your Max, 22nd June 2011

140+ runners were herded together on a field at Truro Rugby Club on Wednesday evening ready to meet their max. The weather had cleared up by the start of the race, but heavy rain earlier in the day would guarantee a very muddy course through the woods around St Clement and Malpas. Talk of hills, steps and major obstacles had created a stir. A stir in the stomach for quite a few people! But let’s not get into that here and head straight on to the reports we’ve got for you. Three of them, aren’t you lucky! Be sure to call back later when the full album and results will also be published in this post!

St Clements village, along the course of The Max - the water station!

Stephie’s Max

Her hands were shaking. It looked like an electric current was running through them. Honestly. “Isobel, what are you worrying about” I thought to myself, “it’s not like you’re in with a serious chance of coming home last is it?!” I wasn’t nervous at all until then, but at that point I began to wonder just how much I was going to embarrass myself this time (not to mention the team). I looked around me and wished I hadn’t. The field was small and 99% of the runners I looked at had legs like Isobel; lets just say fit and lean. And obviously fast. Bloody hell. And Isobel’s a tad anxious? One of the club’s best runners? Sh1t!!!!!! The odds are seriously stacked against you woman, there’s no hope. You = Last. Fact. Slope off now; that calf injury, the one one that’s stopped you running more than 8 miles a week for the last 2 months, it’s really hurting now isn’t it? Well no actually. Shut up and get on with it, just remember the mud. You love mud.

The greyhounds were gone and I can’t even remember how we got down to the woods but one deep inhalation of the musty, earthy smell and I knew exactly where I was: in my element. This was going to be serious fun. No one seemed to be close by, a sea of black and white NRR vests had sailed past me, TRC vests nowhere to be seen, Paul Riley from CAC (always well ahead of me at track sessions), gone.

It had been raining hard earlier in the day and the single track path was as slippery as I’d hoped. There were twists and turns to negotiate, tree roots to jump and brambles to brush past. I get a serious rush from this kind of running, it’s like being a child again, full of energy and freedom. And deep in the woods you can hear people laughing. ‘Racing’ doesn’t even enter into it. Until you get to a queue of people waiting to cross a stream.  Waiting. I mean, seriously? I was polite the first time. I waited with everyone else, at the back of the queue, getting very impatient. I couldn’t believe I’d caught everyone else up because they were pussyfooting around over a bit of ankle deep water. And some very slippery mud.

By the time we got to the infamous fallen tree I’d had enough. I was stood at the back of the queue again looking down at a near vertical mud slide. People were scrabbling around at the bottom wondering how to get over the waist high trunk (oak I think). “Oi! You cheeky minx Truro!”, I heard from above me as I slid down past the line of Newquay runners. And Paul Riley. “Eat my dust, ha, ha!!!”, I grinned, big time! Some poor bloke was trying very hard for the umpteenth time to get over the tree by swinging his right leg sideways over it. Naturally, I wasn’t going to wait. It was a huge tree and I determined there was enough room for the both of us. He obviously didn’t think so, “I was going to do it that time”, he moaned as I jumped off the top into the water on the other side. This was exactly what I was hoping for: I was running on adrenaline. For now.

Paul caught me up again somewhere along the line, he looked pleasantly surprised to see me! “You’re very agile”, he remarked. I am. I knew all those years doing gymnastics would come in useful one day. We were out on the level track down to St Clements village now and Paul slowly pulled away from me. I was aware of a couple of Newquay runners passing me by too and began to curse my inability to actually run. I’m so rubbish at it that sometimes I don’t know why you even let me stay in the club! As I came into the village Jacquie beamed at me and handed me a welcome cup of water. It’s an important role I know, but she should have been running with me! Well ahead of me obviously, but you know what I mean. Following the snake of runners I veered off to the left whilst trying to drink. It’s still not something I’ve mastered; if this were a wet running vest competition I’d win hands down.

The second part of the race becomes progressively harder. You’re lulled into a false sense of security as you run along single track alongside the river. The path goes up and down over short quick hills and you’re enjoying every minute, feeling every muscle in your legs and the soft earth under your squelching trainers. Then there are a few hurdles to cross, one with a ladder. Then you realise it’s getting steeper as the path becomes steps cut into the earth. I’d heard there were steps. No worries, I thought. They’re steep but not too bad. Up the steps and through the pine wood, like running on springs. Apart from the roots.

Three of us came out of the woods together and onto the tarmac near the Heron Inn. It was a shock to the system. The hard ground was unforgiving and the thought of a cold cider at the pub meant this was a tempting end to the run. Ahem, race.  But there on the ‘corner’ was Pete, ushering us off to the right into a gloomy tunnel. I had no idea this was here… The NRR lady in front got a few steps ahead and I got a full view of what lay in front of us. These were the steps. The steps people had been whispering about. The steps akin to the Jacob’s Ladder in Falmouth. 100 of them, I was told later. Meh, it’s nothing I told myself. Come on you’ve trekked the Inca Trail, worse steps than these went on all day. I omitted to tell myself that I was a couple of years younger then and that my knees were shot to pieces. An irrelevant detail. By the time I got to the top my left knee was seriously hot. So what, the worst is over now, it’ll be fine I lied. Then it was a bit of a blur, but I remember a very steep, very muddy descent through a wide tunnel of trees. There was a man ahead of me. He was a very heavy breather. Under different circumstances he would probably have been arrested. I easily caught up with him and overtook, back in my element: balance good, no fear, adrenaline rushing.

Into daylight. Rough grassy tracks ensued. Tussocky and furrowed. Up and down. Not easy on tiring legs. By the time we got to the 5 mile mark I’d liked to have seen the finish line. That would have been a good point to cross the line. I was still ahead of a Newquay runner or two and Maidstone man. I had a smidgin of energy left and I could have put on a short ‘sprint’. I would have retained a modicum of self respect. As it turned out there was considerably more mileage to cover on very uneven ground. Ground that went upwards. “Over two thirds of the way now” shouted Kev. Blimey, only two thirds? That’s not enough. Out round the field edge on single track the final Newquay lady very politely asked if she could pass me. Would a competitive person have said no? If I hadn’t moved over I would soon have fallen over and she would have just trampled over me anyway. I obliged. And she didn’t even say “eat my dust”. Well, not aloud.

I glanced back, there were still two people behind me. Not last, not last, not last, not yet… I was seriously flagging. On to tarmac. Yells of encouragement. Hana, Lynne, Julie. Hana jogged up the hill with me, fresh as a flippin’ daisy! I so wanted to stop there and then. Hang on, was that a look of ‘I told you so’ on Lynne’s grinning face?! I can damn well do this! Yes you can, no you can’t, yes you can… You get the picture. I struggled up the grassy hill to the discernible shouts of Nick, Rachel and Mel. There would be absolutely no sprint to the finish. Absolutely no way. As I fell over the line I thought how nice it would be if race organisers laid crash mats at the end of the funnel. I collapsed in a heap. A very satisfied, totally exhausted heap. Somehow, and I really don’t know how, I made it back to the clubhouse.

The atmosphere was fantastic, people were buzzing and covered in mud. Some of the TRC marshals (who shall remain nameless!) were caught in the act of gawping at the mud covered runners. Well, one runner in particular! It crossed my mind that there would be no one gawping at the sight of me, red-faced, sweating and near falling asleep. Still, I thought, maybe being a marshal had its perks after all. The marshals did a brilliant job along the whole course, their encouragement made it so much easier to go on when I was struggling – and it really is wonderful when everyone knows your name!

Thank you to all you lot at TRC who made this an evening to remember and most definitely  the best ‘race’ I’ve ever done. Oh and one last thing, there were 10 people behind me, 10! And Isobel, well we all know she was never going to be one of them, missis 3rd lady home!!

Stephie

The awesome winning ladies team: TRC's Isobel Wykes, Anne Maskell and Claire Longman

Andy’s Max

The Max!! An appropriate name for this 11k mostly off road, multi terrain, sticky, muddy, hilly sapping, steep race, that appeared to be thoroughly enjoyed by most of the participants.

Having managed to fulfil my car park duties I quickly stripped to my running kit, looked up and saw a deserted Truro RFC ground. Glancing at my watch (It appeared to be working) I realised that all the other runners were already at the start. No time for a proper warm up then just an impersonation of Usain Bolt, well more of an Alan Wells, for those old enough to remember and sprint to the new start line a field away.

I quietly joined the back of the pack while Nick was doing his head masters speech (sorry race organiser). I politely said hello to many fellow runners as I sneaked my way to the middle of the 150 starters.

Bang! We were off!! Too fast I heard a fellow runner say as we left the field and made our way up to the road to St Clement, glancing at my watch, successful satellite reception today, I had to agree. I noted Anne, Isobel, Garry and Andrew moving ahead into the distance and remembered that I caught my usual glance of race winner Colin Snook at the start line and would see my usual glimpse of him again as he watches those trailing in his wake cross the finish line. (I don’t think he had already been and showered).

Into the trees and delighted to be wearing trail shoes as I watched a number of runners doing their Jane Torvill and Christopher Dean impersonations in their road trainers along the muddy and hilly paths.

Downhill and into the chasm at the bottom, over “Beechers Brook” (the log) just in time to see Nigel give poor Isobel a hand up the slope. Any short people, not just the ladies, would need similar assistance to scale this muddy mini Everest. A delightful meander along the tracks, avoiding the tree roots and burst (more of a flop) out into the daylight at Malpas to catch my breath before turning right at a grinning Pete Sowerby as he sadistically directed runners to the base of the steps. “I will not walk, I will not walk, I will not walk”. I did not walk, I did not walk, and I did not walk. Although I am not sure I scaled them and the ensuing hill any quicker than those that chose the quick march option. “Do we ever get to go downhill again?” The course just seemed to climb and climb before a trip back through the woods, another climb and then the rapid, uncontrollable descent down a muddy slope thankfully with a small braking zone at the bottom just in time to turn right and start the field ascent to the finish. Is it me or are we all in slow motion at this stage I ask myself as I am sure we all move quicker in other races. And why does my watch say 6.3 miles at the six mile mark? Yet it did agree at the end distance. By the time all these thoughts have run through my head I spot the finish line. Patrick Munn was about 10 yards ahead; we had interchanged at least 4 times previously. I wondered could I sneak quietly by with a burst. I gasped, head down and pushed. The groaning and gasping breaths must have given me up as just as I pulled along side, he gave a little burst and I failed by the width of several vests. Well run Patrick.

A massive thank you to all those club members and friends who helped organise this fabulous event. The course was excellent, well signed and enthusiastically marshalled with great support from all those marshals and spectators around the course.

Did I match the memento? Were we all mugs? No just running enthusiasts who enjoy the outdoors.

Andy

Hana’s Max

TRC marshals have a well-earned drink! L - R Hana Clitherow, Julie Johns, Jacquie Brown, Lynne Donahue and Nigel Nuckey

I checked the TRC web site and no report for the New Max. Was it that bad , that all you runners are still in shock?

I have to say it was the easiest race I’ve been to. And a very nice pasty plus mug at the end.

Ok, so I didn’t run it. Work has it’s disadvantages/advantages and I wasn’t unable to get there in time to race. I was though, in time, to see the last stragglers race for the start line, then I had the pleasure of watching them all pound up the lane before disappearing into the unknown. Yeh, unknown!!! I guessed well in advance that it would involve tear inducing hills and mud by the bucket load. Was I right?????….I think so!

I decided that I would be sociable whilst waiting to see the all the  runners cross the finish line, so joined Lynn and Julie at the last marshalling point on the course. I have to say it was a trite nippy hanging around for all you runners to come back, and I think our coaches need to try some more mud sessions and hill work outs to speed the Truro lot up, because hypothermia was setting in.

Any way, after a bit of chat, the first runner appeared out of the field just up the road from us, and it was the lovely Colin from Cornwall AC. He must have taken a short cut, as it seemed ages before the next runner appeared. They looked slightly out of breath, then the rest followed.

There was a theme running through the next lot of male runners……bowed legs, the sort pigs run through. If this is what the MAX does to you…count me out next year.

It was no time at all, and there was Anne, the first lady home, with Isobel in 3^rd place…sheer magic. After all the elite runners had passed by, I got bored with just clapping so tried verbal encouragement, telling the competitors they only had 3 miles to go, and that sort of thing, but should a TRC female appear, I told them the truth and even broke into a slight jog alongside them. I’m not sure it helped them, but it kept me from freezing…flaming June…not on your nelly.

So you see, I did deserve my pasty and mug and looking at the state of the competitors attire, I do think the race should be renamed DIRTY MAX!!!!! (Could bring up a few interesting hits on google). I even noticed a few ladies with muddy hand prints on their bottoms!

So congratulations to all who ran the race, all who marshalled it and long may she sail! Bravo.

Hana

TRC Results

Coming soon!

Full Results

2011_the_max_results .xls file.  NB, pace is given in KM not miles!!!

The Max Album

Coming soon!