Solutions-IMS

The Murder Mile

"One of the toughest uphill miles in the country," say Islwyn Running Club. "Easier said than run - hellish!" say the Echo. One of the Runner's World top ten hardest races. And yet, we're back for more.

Mynyddislwyn Mile, the Murder Mile, the Mad Mile; the guaranteed personal worst! The numbers on the shirts surpass 80, yet the number of people struggles to reach 50 - it can only be assumed that 30 absentees quickly acquired some sense on the day of the race! Memories of zombied legs failing at abseiling the beast, and then the dreaded quarter-mile markers - two miles to the first, seven to the second, a marathon to the third!

We descend in groups into the jaws of Mynyddislwyn, harshly reminded as we turn of the sheer scale of the task laid out before us. Jokes and hollow laughter do their best to mask the questionable sanity, as the last of the madcap runners arrive. The Solutions boys have no excuse for being here however, having conquered the mountain the year before and lived to tell the tale! But, the numbers are pinned to our vests, and the world awaits us at the top of the hill.

  The race official prepares in the safety of his car, which fails to go anywhere on its first attempt - this sets the precedent for the runners. Second serve: "On your marks, get set, go!" People around us start the timers on their watches. In all honesty it's a little less painful without. The course record is just under eight minutes - a comfortable pace by the Solutions boys' average given any other race!

Deceptively scenic...

It's said that during a marathon, the real race starts at 24 miles. The 24-mile wall. And, I think I can speak for both of us when I say that the 24-mile wall hit us at the first quarter-mile marker! Mantras push us forward, keepitmovingkeepitmovingkeepitmovingkeepitmoving... and what starts off in my head exudes on a breath by half a mile, and is being yelled by three quarters. My body begs me to stop, to slow down, to walk; and I know that if I were to listen and walk I would likely reach the finishing line faster. But I can't cheat myself now, having run for almost the whole of the monster, a feat that was impossible last year. In reality it's the reason I came back - walking it feels like letting it beat you, and this close to the top I can't let it happen.

Close to the top. Close to the top. One hour later it seems and I'm still close to the top. And gradually, over the shining brow of the hill, a golden turning into the finishing line appears. Am I seeing things? Is it really there? Does it actually exist? The neverending one-mile race... and I can see the end! There's not enough of my essence left to exert a sprint to the line, but I manage to keep to my hill speed as the race flattens out, widens out, brightens up, and I've made it!

Survivors

 

Blissfully collapsing over the line, a drink thrust into my hand, I know that next year the only thing I'll remember will be the bliss of collapsing over the line and having a drink thrust into my hand. The pain will have been blacked out by then, who wants to remember it? And foolishly, we'll come back. For now, though, aureate victory. In the acheful form of hobbling around for about a week.