The Fan y Big Horseshoe Race begins in the village of Llanfrynach, near Brecon, and is the younger brother to Pen y Fan race that has been raced since 1986.  The Pen y Fanis classified by the FellRunning Association as an AS, or in the words of the race organisers as “brutal but it doesn't go on for long”. Combined, the two races now form the Brecons Fan Race Weekend that has been held over a weekend in mid-July since 2007. http://www.breconfans.org.uk/home

 

I asked my knees if they were up for some brutal treatment; specifically whether 2000 feet of ascent in 3.5 miles on Saturday was a good idea? Together we decided that perhaps we’d leave this for another time and concentrate on the Sunday run up Pen Y Fan, a mere 2,200 feet over 10.3 miles. On arrival at the cow field ready to start the race, I could quite easily spot those folk who had opted for the brief but brutal race up Pen y Fan the day before. A few were readily showing me their injuries that included sores, cuts and strains – nothing too dramatic, but enough to hamper a run up and down a mountain. One runner who shall be named ‘man with sticks’ (pictured below) had a nasty blister that was seemingly making him hobble – more of him later.

Before the race started, we had to sing happy birthday to a fellow named ‘Dan’ and then soon enough, we were off. For the first mile or so we ran along a river bank, past a farm and through fields. I am pleased that I hadn’t actually seen Fan y Big mountain before the race because it was a shock that brought about involuntary utterance of a few choice words. We began to make the climb and fairy quickly the burn in my quads was apparent. ‘Man with sticks’ was having no problem overtaking everyone feeling the heat. As he passed me, I made a decision that he would become my back-marker and that I would always be ahead of him. Afterall, man with sticks was at least 20 years my senior and carrying an injury. Thus, I should find this less of a challenge surely? How wrong I turned out to be. I overtook him only to be overtaken again shortly after. Not too ruffled, I did the same manoeuvre again only to slow down as my quads screamed at me to stop. Man with sticks passed me making the summit 23 seconds ahead of me, recording a time of 47:39. I was in 31st place but if nothing else, amazed at the view and the fact that I had not needed to use my infamous navigation skills to get me there. The view was breath-taking and for a few moments I looked around in awe.

It was then that things got a little easier because we ran along the curved edge of the horseshoe on the summit of the mountain – I felt this was my moment because, as a tarmac slapper, I was comfortable running on the flat. The surface was undulating, springy from the peat and consequently my pace quickened as set out to chase man with sticks. Unfortunately, my plan was not working as he seemed to be creating a large gap between us.

Fell running is different to all other types of running that I have done before. I say this because I have never concentrated harder than running down a mountain. I can tell you that along trails I often find myself switching off and forgetting sometimes where I am but last year I fell badly on the descent down Snowdon. That taught me that up mountains people should not run using the trail running philosophy because the fall cost me £500 of smashed kit and also gave me enough grazes to happily check myself in to St John’s afterwards without fear of embarrassment.

This time would be different – “concentrate James” I said aloud to myself, “concentrate”. I began to weave in and out of rocks, make jumps that I wouldn’t normally risk and push hard trying to inch out every little I could. I was gaining on a few runners up front and I saw the path open up for the briefest of moments. I took the opportunity to overtake and now I was in 29th. Man with sticks seemed to have disappeared but then I caught sight of him and re-focussed on the chase. Meanwhile, he was blissfully unaware that we were racing seeming to enjoy the descent without care – why wouldn’t he? Foolishly, I thought that I would follow him on a cut across the path thinking that he probably had local knowledge. It turned out that he didn’t and my feet felt the squelch of a bog – “Damn”. That mistake meant that I quickly felt the pressure from behind from runners who had taken the more direct route. It was at this point that I felt a change in psychology – I wanted it to be over. My quads were taking a battering and I knew that if I were to achieve my goal, I’d have to go harder and faster. Unfortunately for him, a runner ahead was seen to slow down which lifted my spirits because it was an easy win to overtake him. I regained my pace, my spirits and I took off once more.

We came to a grassy section so steep that had my toes were painfully pushed into the toe boxes of my shoes. I overtook a couple more folk who perhaps couldn’t hack the twang from their hamstrings either and had probably raced the day before anyway. Then another runner was passed as I whipped past to hop over a gate. On the last section down the mountain, the fields turned to tarmac and you would have thought that this would be a pleasing experience. However, it was quite unsettling because I could now hear the runners putting pressure on me from behind including what I believed at the time was the first lady.

My colleagues at work ask for the “chick count” when I tell them of the races I have been doing. “Chick count” is a rather blunt way of asking how many women beat me. Aware that the chick count was currently low, I tried my very hardest to keep the lady behind me at bay. My quads had other ideas though, and would have happily given in at any moment. I don’t know what speed we were doing but it felt extremely fast because the road was incredibly steep. The lady made surges, even at this pace, to overtake but in my very small box of weapons, I have at my disposal quite a large gait. I overextended and managed to hold her off. I am not aware of breathing at this point, nor of the surrounding environment. All I wanted to see now was the end. Anyway, I stupidly forgot to concentrate and took a wrong turn in the village. Now a group of three, a fellow runner called me back and I had enough breath to thank him. I thought it discourteous to overtake him but pulled alongside. The lady pulled in behind and I think at this point we were pleased to run through the village without killing ourselves. We finished pretty much together in 1:35, shook hands and thanked each other for pushing on when it mattered. Days later I looked down the results table – how could the winner finish the race in 1:16 – it seemed impossible. Unable to resist, I looked him up and derived that he ran the London marathon in 2:38 – my goodness, there were some elite performances on that day. I was in double awe of the mountain and the people that ran it on that hot July day and shall do it again.