Export resultManx MM on Sat 10th Apr 1993
Out in the middle of the Irish Sea the captain came on the, P.A. to tell us that it was raining hard in Douglas Bay and visibility was poor. When we arrived the rain had eased to a steady drizzle and the fog had lifted to 50\' to just clear the roofs of the houses around the Promenade. The Victorian elegance seemed a little more faded than when I last visited the island.
200\' above the bay visibility was 10m. We spent 20 minutes walking round -Nobles Park trying to find the campsite. It was closed but we pitched the tent all the same. I took the compass with me when I went to get water and left instructions for Paulette to start blowing the whistle if I hadn\'t returned in half
an hour.
In the evening we tramped the cold, wet, empty streets of Douglas in search of a meal. The rain returned and pattered all In the
night on our tent. morning it was still pattering. We looked out and discovered several other tents which had been invisible in the clap. From each one miserable faces poked out, except one which had collapsed and been abandoned in the night.
We drank tea, made breakfast and had more tea, read our books,, exchanged them and finished each others. Still it rained. Eventually sheer boredom drove us out. Down in Douglas people still seemed to be converging. Soaked to the skin we followed and found ourselves at the Isle of Man museum. It turned out to be a real Mary Poppins bag: it just went on and on. I wondered how there could be so much to know about such a small island but we came out four hours later, minds reeling with Vikings, geology, art folklore and wildlife. And the rain had stopped. In the evening, before we went to bed we looked down on the lights of the harbour, visible for the first time, and was that a star up there?
In the morning the island had been transformed. An early sun lit a brilliant blue sky, the grey/green sea had turned an inviting aqua marine and the hills, all now visible shone in their coats of heather and grass. As the bus wound its way up the coast to Ramsey, the last trail of mist drifted off the day\'s first objective - North Barrule.
The Manx Mountain Marathon is the longest category A race in the calendar at 30 miles and follows the hilly spine of the island starting from the sleepy town of Ramsey in the north east and finishing at Port Erin on the south west tip. The hills are gentle and rolling but rough underfoot. Apart from Snaefell the route never rises above 2000\' but for all that the hills can be bleak and wild in bad weather. We were set off from the sea front and climbed through woodlands to the heathery slopes of North Barrule.
One of the idiosyncrasies of the race is that there are three classes : one for walkers, one for standard and one for elite runners. In the past the standard and elite runners have started at different times but now they run together, the only difference being eligibility for prizes; the classes might be more
appropriately labelled runners and pot hunters. Another
idiosyncrasy is that in addition to 14 checkpoints there are counter checkpoints at some road crossings. If all these are marked on your map you are faced with a hugely confusing matrix. Worst of all the control card is a huge cardboard disc that flaps about on your vest. John Blair Fish was once famously disqualified for losing his temper with his disc and destroying it.
Up on North Barrule, with the early exuberance tempered by the climb we become aware of how privileged we were. The sun shone gently from a fresh sky, the rolling hills of the island stretched out before us and to east and west lay the blue of the sea. The day filled me with lightness and I almost floated along the ridge. By Snaefell I\'d been running for over an hour and felt thoroughly warmed up. I started to think about my position and think about the race. The real competition doesn\'t start until South Barrule which stood hugely visible still two hours to the south.
Chasing two people down to Injerbeck I tripped; hands out I went into a graceful swallow dive. I heard a bone in my hand snap as I landed. There was no real pain and by keeping my fist lightly cleched I could stop the finger from wobbling.
From Injebeck there was a long climb up to Colden, through thick heather, then a rough run round to Greeba Mountain. The elasticity began to go from my limbs and the first signs of tiredness set in. The course here has changed since I last did the race and for the worse. Now there is a two mile slog along a disused railway that stretches out into eternity and the sand and mud make every footfall an effort. Most people seemed to suffer here were thankful to reach the drinks and checkpoint at St Johns.
There was some poor flagging on the next stretch and twice I missed the way and had to negotiate barbed wire which I found awkward with my hand. All the time South Barrule grew. I felt good as I approached it and felt I could run it but the calf deep heather soon brought me to a walk. It\'s a long and gentle hill but after 3 1/2 hours it demands a lot of the legs.
Once you\'re up that you\'ve cracked the race and you start looking over your shoulder or setting your sights on the man in front. Now you are racing. Wet, but pleasant moorland paths take you over the next hilltop and then there\'s good running all the way to the steep descent down to the sea at Fleshwick Bay, a fabulous hidden cove surrounded by steep bracken covered slopes.
The final climb rears up now 230m. It feels more like 2,000. When you finally top out on Bradda Hill you can see the tower which is the final checkpoint. The early aftern6on sun threw shadows behind the walls, and fence posts as I hurried down the cliff top paths. The yellow vest that had been gaining inexorably on me on the climb seemed to give up the chase leaving me time to choose the best path down to the finish at the cafe.
Runners sat around relishing the ache of tired limbs and a very special day of fell running. Nobody could quite decide why the times had been so slow on such a fine day but I think we had all been enjoying ourselves too much to really race hard.
Rick Ansell
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