A leisurely jog around Cornwall
The Sensible Part
At some point, I agreed to run 102 miles around Cornwall. This involved starting and finishing in the fishing village of Looe, climbing over Bodmin Moor, “touching” the county’s highest point Brown Willy, battling the savagery of the north coast, surviving the delirium of the night, waiting for a ferries and finishing with a pint of Guinness that….that was at the top of many steps, but tasted like earned redemption.
This is that story. Mostly.
The Start: Confidence, Optimism and Fresh Knees
We set off from Looe at 6am, full of enthusiasm, bravado, and the quiet confidence that comes from having done absolutely nothing like this before. Spirits were high, legs were fresh, mistakes had not yet been made.
They would be.
Bodmin Moor & Brown Willy: Where the Wind Judges You
The route dragged us up over Bodmin Moor, eventually reaching Brown Willy, Cornwall’s highest point and a place that exists solely to remind runners they are small and underprepared.
It was beautiful, bleak, and windy, yet still not quite enough to question my life choices, despite the climb up Brown Willy
Davidstow Airfield: A Masterclass in Psychological Warfare
Then came Davidstow Airfield…flat, open, endless, and designed by someone who clearly hates runners. An early contender for “Why am I here?” as it endlessly drifted on but mercifully the wind was side on and so I did not suffer the indignity of being even slower in my trasnit! Luckily my stunning queen of support Jess (the mad wife!) and Bear the dog met me at the end of the runway with a bacon sandwich and friendly wave from the Davidstow RAF museum staff whom she had befriended while waiting for my achingly slow self.
Boscastle & the North Coast: Scenic Cruelty
Dropping into Boscastle (yes of flood fame Boscastle) seemed like a merciful break after the relentless 30 miles of climbing so far endured…but it turned out to be the beginning of trouble. The knees immediately started to indicate some signs of reticence to the downhill, which went on and on and…you get it. Jess and Bear appeared at Tintagel (which she diud and does pronounce as Tin-tag-nel…she is a Janner in her defence) with snacks and an observation that the north coast is stunning…completely agreed but said it could have been a little flatter.
What was to follow was the north coast, relentlessly hilly, brutally technical, and stunning enough to distract you just long enough to trip. Soon it was dark, raining sideways (as it does in Cornwall) and the hills, well they were more like rutted, boulder strewn mountains that punished you both up and down. Knees began a full rebellion, particularly the right at this point who felt it right to punish me on the downhill only, as uphill could be left to the elevation alone which would deal with the lungs and ticker. The downhill which was meant to be the easy but became a wincing crab dance that the crustaceans 100ft below would have been proud of.
Padstow at 11pm: Civilisation, Mockery, and Pubs Full of Joy
I shuffled through litytle fishing village after another, all with bustling pubs and warm fiores while the rain continued it work while I looked like an escaped extra from a post-apocalyptic film, trying not to smell like regret. FINALLY stumbling into Rick Steins gaf, Padstow at around 11pm was surreal. Pubs were full, people were laughing, singing and generally in full flow while I slunk past like a lonely goat herder, minus the goats (I did have my poles that are kind of like shepherd crooks!). Glasses clinked, life was perfect…for them. Fortunately my amazing friend Janet met me with a boot load of snacks and a willingness to jog (pronounced yog), which was a miracle as he prides himself on never running and only utilising 2m or 4 wheels for locomotion! It was however much appreciated.
Woodland “paths”, hedges, cruel gravity and absolutely nailing sleep running
Heading inland again meant wild woodland paths that basically only existed in your imagination and the kind of darkness that eats head torch batteries for fun.
Somewhere along here, while traversing a slope and hopping over a downed tree, gravity won. I took a solid tumble that:
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Smashed my iPhone
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Bruised my ego
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Provided excellent entertainment for anyone watching…and yes there was someone watching. I don’t know his name but he was number 22 and we traded places for the entire race! A great chap though, who kindly stopped but my ego and need to curse meant I sent him on while I sorted my life out!
I then heading across the worlds most inconveniently ploughed field, which tripled the weight of my feet before coming to a hedge that despite what my map was telling me had no crossing point. After going up and down the hedge line two or three times like a mad sheep looking for an escape (probably why I ended up going further than the designated mileage), I decided in my delirious state that there was no escape. I saw some lights in the distance and shouted at them, there was no reply (probably weren’t there) so I decided to do what seemed most obvious and inspired by a previous recce run with my client Jo, take a run up and go for the head long dive option through the hedge. It worked, to a degree. A few minor wounds and the short-term loss of a hiking pole which was soon recovered and I was en route again (after briefly sneaking through someone’s garden to get on the road again… sorry about that!).
As I carried on, around 2-3 am I started to notice I was dreaming that I was doing a daft run around the county at night and my knee hurt…I then woke up as I stumbled into a hedge. I then carried on drifting in and out of consciousness for the next hour or so until the sun began to rise and I had consumed that much tea and coffee at an aid station that the amazing volunteer manning it suggest I may benefit from a nap…I politely declined and when the sun began to rise, nature did it’s thing. The circadian rhythm I can confirm, is a thing. My morale and energy grew noticeably as the sun rose in front of my eyes, making me feel as though I had just had a solid 8 hours…my Garmin disagreed (but doesn’t it always).
Fowey: Ferries to hills and the second knee joins the chat
Reaching Fowey felt monumental right up until I discovered the preceding sodding, switchback, savage hills were not in isolation. Left knee decided it was now time to join in on the protest with some serious medial malice on every flat or downhill section (yea ok at this stage I accepted a few more miles on the coast paths in the bag would have helped, but it was a busy summer on the Campsite ok!). A 20-minute ferry wait, only put pause on the impending pain. Rachael, another awesome friend had run with me in the lead up to Fowey and kept my mind off the knees and generally nattered about nothing which was perfect. I saw the old man who offered me a thermos and a banana, much appreciated.
But the ferry wait, the heat and stares of the tourists (it was about mid morning the next day at this point). Nothing quite says “ultra running experience” like sitting on a bench, stiffening up, radiating some quite inhuman odours and watching a boat slowly approach while your knees (yep, both at this point) file a formal complaint.
The South Coast Slog: Knees vs. Hills
The final stretch along the south coast was savage. Endless, near vertical climbs and descents, bilateral knee pain that felt personal and half way along when I was near my lowest…the addition of unadulterated, no holds barred abuse that only your best mate can distribute with glee while watching you suffer. Now normally I would give as good as I get or just outrun him (yes I got that in Matthew), but at this stage and in this condition, he had me on the chopping block. Despite feeling like i was putting in a solid “jog” on the flat and downhills, Matt would appear next to me, with the worlds most malicious grin….walking. Then proceed to say “this is nice isn’t it” or “you look like you’re in pain”, in short, he was having the time of his life and it wasn’t the fresh sea air or views that were making him so happy. Nothing makes a man happier than a best friends absolute despair…yes, we are terrible people, but it is a sign of affection…really.
At this point, I was loudly cursing:
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The course designer (didn’t mean it Purple Gecko!)
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Cornwall
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My dodgy knee genetics (clutching at straws here)
- The colour blue…essentially anything was up for grabs
Luckily, the temperature was still in the high 20s, which really added to the ambiance.
The Finish: Guinness, Heckling, and Stairs (Twice)
The final miles into Looe were painful but great, the achievement started to settle in, I was over 100 miles now and there was no way I wouldn’t finish, no matter what (ole, who gonna carry the boats and all that) . Number 22 came flying past down one of the final hills and I couldn’t have been happier for him (mainly) after passing him a while back and he was seriously struggling, force feeding himself belvitas and bemoaning his life decisions, I could relate. On the final stretch a small crew of friends and family appeared and we walked in before I thought, I better run as everyone was watching at the finish and it seemed off to walk it in…run for the cameras and all that.
To prove I could still move, I ran up the steps to the finish, immediately followed by a stunning pint of Guinness at the Hannafore Hotel and then realising I had to go back down the steps as I was being heckled by one of my own amazing clients support crew. The legend that is Jo, was out the course but not far away and her crew were enjoying the sun and beers. She came in with a smile and a serious achievement under her belt, another to add to her growing list of crazy ultras. Her crew made bets on my descent of the stairs…this felt fair and I obliged by hobbling down at max haste to great applause…and laughter!
The Aftermath: Driving Home Like a Questionable Adult
I then drove home with cramp threatening every gear change, questioning whether manual transmissions are compatible with ultra running.
They are not.
Final Thoughts
(family and friends at the end, thanks to Abby and Hayden for popping down as well as the folks and the aforementioned maniacs that joined en route)
Would I do it again?
Absolutely not.
(Which is exactly how you know I probably will.)
Cornwall, my home is brutal, beautiful, and completely unapologetic. Massive thanks to everyone who planned, supported, mocked, fed, paced, abused, and tolerated me along the way. Final thanks to the awesome volunteers at the aid stations and en route, patience of saints and hearts of gold, cheers for not laughing at me when I got stuck in an extended fever trance at 3 am, about to head out the door, but clearly not wanting to somewhere near Lanivet!
And to the Guinness, you were worth every step.
If you ever fancy training for an Ultra like this or multi day events, feel free to get in touch for coaching or just to pick my brains on ideas!
