Arc of Attrition 2020
Before
Another year, another Arc as they say?... After 3 unsuccessful attempts in 2017, 2018 and 2019, I still didn't get the message and was planning to be back for more beating from this brutal race. For the first time my better half was to be there to support me and we kinda had an agreement that this year was to be my last attempt; now or never.
So armed with that knowledge I threw myself at some serious training. I grabbed a training plan from Sage Running and was following it to the dot. The previous year I kinda thought I was doing OK with training, but it was nothing compared to my determination this year.
I did 9 consecutive weeks of 100km+ mileage (peaking at 124). The last of those were four days spend over the New Year break in Cornwall and four recces of the course. By the end of it I almost covered the whole course. Most importantly I did cover the bits — last 50k+ from Pendeen lighthouse to the finish — that I never got to in my previous attempts.
Coming back from that little training camp in Cornwall I felt real good. Tired but good. I was fully aware that the finish on the race day was going to be anything but guaranteed but at the same time I also knew that this was the best I was ever prepared for what was to come.
... and then it all fell apart. I came back from Cornwall super tired. I then followed up with few training runs, bringing me to the brink of exhaustion and not paying enough time to recovery. And then I stumbled while walking, stretching my left hamstring beyond what it wanted to be stretched to. Physio diagnosis: torn hamstring :(.
At this point it was mere 3 weeks before the race. If only I survived one more week I'd be moving on to taper phase and all would be good. Instead a manic training program turned into manic recuperation attempts. Stretching, icing, dry needling, taping, heating and repeating... There wasn't a thing I didn't try to be back in shape for the Big Day. My physio was cautiously optimistic and so was I.
In fact the recovery was progressing nicely and my initial depression slowly turned into hope that perhaps not all is lost. Indeed, close to the race my hamstring felt OK and I even did a couple of cautious runs just to test the waters. It wasn't too bad although my hamstring was tensing up pretty quickly so I honestly wasn't sure whether it'll be able to deal with the length and intensity of the Arc...
Finally on Thursday, the day before the race, my better half and I packed the car and set off for Cornwall. Logistically we were much better prepared than I was previous years, with a trunkload of things that I might possibly need. The trip itself also went much more smoothly (no snow this time to hamper our progress!). We reached race HQ by 5pm, registered, went to our accommodation and had plenty of time to leisurely grab dinner (pastapizza party!).
The following day a quick breakfast and off to pre-race briefing which consisted of the usual encouragement including talk of hypothermia, treacherous high tides, deadly cliffs and mineshafts and the like. So motivated we headed to the start, although this time I got my private chauffeur rather than the usual bus ride. The forecast was pretty decent, around 10C, with some rain here and there. But no snow and freezing through the night seemed unlikely.
I got to the start and we were welcomed by a timely drizzle. But before we got properly wet it was time to get moving... the adventure started!
During
The beginning was not great. The weather was good but due to all the rain in the previous weeks the course was extremely muddy. I also felt twice, once by stumbling on something and making a pretty impressive dive (or so I was told) and the second time when crossing a wooden bridge that was frozen over. Neither did any good for my hamstring. In fact, mere 20km into the race I was feeling a pain acute enough to realize that, given how early in the race it was, my chances of completing it were slim. Which is not to say I wasn't going to give it my best.
However, funnily enough, as the race progressed, instead of getting worse, I got better. I thought I was making good progress and was slightly surprised that my cheat sheet with checkpoint timings was estimating my finish at 30h+, as I was pretty sure I was going way faster than that. The weather stayed reasonable, my aches went away and all was good.
At the Land's End checkpoint, in the middle of the night, I learned from the volunteers that I was relatively in the front of the "peloton" (behind the pros but ahead of most mortals), which was quite encouraging. However, I missed the call of nature at that checkpoint and in the end decided to go back some 500m or so (definitely a good call!)
Eventually I reached the Pandeen Watch Lighthouse. A very significant place as that was when I dropped in two previous years. The bad news was that I knew that what lay ahead was, supposedly, the most difficult part of the route (and I could confer as I got a sample during my reccing). The good news was that I reached that point roughly 3.5 hours earlier than in the previous years. In fact, it was still dark, which, by the way, wasn't very helpful given the difficulties that I knew lay ahead.
I got a little supportive talking to (tough love it's called, I was told) from my partner and off I went. I quickly grouped together with one and then two other guys and we did most of this section together (whereas for most of the race I was flying solo). The main difficulty by far was bogginess of the route. Which was substantial. Very substantial.
Another difficulty of this section was that it was 22 kilometers long with no official access points for the crew, which, at this point in the race, and given the difficulty of this section, was a distance to reckon with. My partner was adamant that she'll try to access me by trail in the middle of this section, even though I was equally adamant that she should get some much needed sleep instead. You can guess who won that argument. Although, as it turned out, she got confused about the location and missed me, so I feel a moral winner ;).
After what felt like eternity finally the daylight came, which is always a huge morale boost. With it I dropped my two companions and was plugging along on my own. Eventually I run out of liquids, food and, almost, energy so I was really elated when, around 10am, I was approaching St. Ives. Even more so when I saw that my indispensable support crew of one was waiting for me at the edge of town. This allowed me to quickly recharge, restock, get some moral support and be on my way without stopping at the official checkpoint (the only one of four that I flew by without stopping).
This was the high point of the race. I now had "only" 35km to go; less than a marathon! I knew — from previous years — that pretty much everyone who made it to St. Ives finished the race; I knew — from reccing — that the remaining bit was relatively easy and the worst was past me; and I knew — from my support — that I was in a pretty good position, 25th or thereabouts, which gave a huge boost to my motivation. So I flew on the roads leading from St. Ives at, what felt like, a breakneck pace; though post race reality check revealed that it was mere 6:30/km, though, in all fairness, in late stages of a 100-miler race that is faster than it sounds.
... but this surge of energy was not to last. Not at all. Even though I was on even pavement, I was soon reduced to walking and had to alternate walking with jogging. As it turned out the next couple of hours were to be the hardest by far.
After negotiating treacherous "dunes of doom", I finally reached Godrevy, a mere 19km from the finish. Another meet with my crew and this time I decided to do a shoe change pitstop. Now, shoe changing strategies vary greatly among runners. I usually try to stick with a single pair of shoes as "things" tend to settle in the shoes in a long race and I don't like messing around with that internal ecosystem. But I know some runners in Arc of Attrition religiously change socks and shoes at every official checkpoint. Since I had trail shoes on for the past 25 hours and the soles of my feet were taking some serious beating on the pavement and rocks, I decided to switch into more road running friendly shoes at this stop. This was no easy feat. Firstly, we had to cut shoelaces as untangling them plus all the mud was just impossible. Secondly, I sat down in the car for this operation. Getting back on the move was not pretty. Before stopping I was beat but I was settled into my tired shuffle and making steady, if not fast, progress. After my little sit down I felt like a wooden figure and my shuffle turned into a positive dead man's walk. Later my better half admitted to me that it was at this point that her conviction about me finishing wavered.
But soon I found my rhythm again. If it can be called that. It was an early afternoon and the weather was gorgeous so many people were out for a walk. Many of them seemed to know what craziness I was up to and offered words of encouragement. I heard over and over again: "It's not far now!" and I would have laughed out loud if I had the energy required to do so. Every further 100m seemed far to me at this point.
Eventually I made it to Portreath where I mustered enough energy to break into a springy jog (that's what it felt like to me, though it probably looked much less dignified in reality) where I was met with lots of cheering, led by my Biggest Supporter. Although that thought first crossed my mind at St. Ives it was at this point that for the first time I knew that I have it in the bag. And that, barring big mishaps, I would finish under 30 hours, securing me a much coveted golden buckle. I even allowed myself to daydream about the moment I cross the finish line, which, quite frankly, made me pretty emotional.
But little did I realize that my work is not quite done yet. In the little distance I had left, 3 hills awaited me. I swear those bastards popped up from nowhere as I definitely did not remember them from my practice runs. Each one, in its cruelty, required dropping to the sea level only to have to climb back up next. My legs did not find it funny. The only reasons why I did not sit down and cried was because a) I really wanted to get this over with and b) intel from my crew had it that there are some folks not too far behind me. So I bit my tongue and carried on. I looked at my watch very frequently and each time could not believe how little progress I've made since the previous glance.
Those were the longest kilometers I've ever done but eventually I saw the descent to the beach in Porthowan and from there I was carried forward by the excitement of being so close and the fear of someone being shortly behind me (intel on my phone). The cherry on top of the cake, prepared by the organizers' in the cruelty characteristic to this race, was the last bit which required negotiating a pretty steep final hill. Oh well, at least that provided an excuse for walking rather than running. I crossed the line. I received my (golden!) buckle. And I collapsed on the closest bench.
After
It took me 28 hours and 20 minutes to finish. It took me 4 years.
It might sound cliche but it was definitely one of the hardest things I've done in my life. And, consequently, I was very happy I've made it. Not only that but I was 23rd overall, something I would not dream of while standing at the start line after barely having recovered from a hamstring injury...
Other than finishing itself another thing that surprised me was that I felt... fine. I mean, don't get me wrong, after crossing the finish line, sure enough, I felt like shit. But I had no injuries or aches other than the usual stuff one would expect after such a brutal race (i.e. an overall and complete ache of the whole body from top to bottom). Now that I'm looking back at it after a number of weeks has passed I think a very telling statistic is how long it took me to go back to running. In 2017 it was 22 days after which I averaged a measly 1 run per week for the following 7 weeks! (translation: I was sick of running). In 2018 it was 15 days and also I started with 2 runs per week in the following weeks. In 2019 it was better, just 8 days and I settled into 2-3 runs per week. But in 2020 it was 7 days and I was essentially back in full swing doing 9 runs in the following 10 days! (hint: I had a marathon coming in April). Was it physical? Or mental (boost from finishing)? Probably both.
Also, looking back on the race I think I had a ton of luck. Yes, the hard training (over multiple seasons, not just in the months prior to the race) surely helped. But so did the weather, my fantastic support crew(!), my hamstring that decided, miraculously!, to behave and so many other factors.
With Arc finally off my running TODO list, it's time for a new challenge! Stay tuned :)
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