Snowden: Gwlyb a Gwyntog

 

The Snowdon Race has been re-branded. Its now the Ras Yr Wyddfa.  As we sat in the Hotel, the rain lashing down and the wind having its evil way with the Sycamores outside, we gazed with mouths agog at the board on the wall above the table opposite. The board contained 10 common phrases in English such as ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and ‘wheres the sun’ with their Welsh equivalent. However, we didn’t know where to start. There was no indication of how to pronounce these words nor any clues or phonetic guidance for us ignoramii.  To me it remains an inaccessible language. If we were to make a habit of running the Snowdon International Race, we’d better brush up next time. As it was, the race was shortened due to the conditions, the distance being reduced from 10 miles to 6.4 miles. It was a complete contrast to last year where runners sweltered and teetered on the edge of hydration and heat exhaustion as the mercury hit the high 70’s, where runners simmered slowly in their own juices and the ice cream man did very nicely, thank you.

This year in the saturated conditions no one was shouting out for more water, no one was eating ice creams and no one was complaining that the course had been shortened. The race commentator tried to be as upbeat as possible as we warmed up in the field and checked we had packed our goggles, trunks and kick-boards. It is chip timing, so I took my place toward the back of the field with Marg and with Speedy Joe somewhere at the front after making it into the elite field. 

I had my woolly hat, gloves and waterproof jacket on. After the start the tarmac takes you for half a mile to the lower slopes which are very steep. After this, there is a turn around 1 mile onto the gravel and cobble path and the gradient, for the most part, is very reasonable. As I ascended I kept an eye out for other old duffers who might be in the M60 class. There was a yellow vested Mercia runner ahead and another red vested Northern Fells type in with the group I was with and Mercia Man began to pull away toward the turn. A very tall Ranleagh runner kept stopping and starting just ahead of me and I pushed on to tuck in where I could. Soon enough Richards, Costa and Douglas were clambering past in the opposite direction with the enough momentum to flatten a bull, trying to get a clear line down the hill and shouting ‘track, track’ as they flew past. The procession of runners soon became more intense and I knew we were near the turn. It was blowing a hooly. The heavy showers came and came abit more. The bemused, fully hydrated and lightly salted walkers on the hill, almost all clad in black coats and hoods hugged themselves nervously, lifting their eyes and looking up and out occasionally to see if the coast was clear from these marauding hoodlum type runners who were laying waste to the mountain path. 

After the turn I absolutely hammered it. Mercia man was dust and Northern Fells blokey ate my shorts; all of them. I took a couple of random scalps. Toward the lower gravel slopes I spied a group of 6 or 7 and took aim. I was full tilt. 

Just before the tarmac I was past all of them, but I could feel their displeasure in the Matrix behind me as I cast my jacket and hat onto the grass verge with complete abandon. As the gradient eased on the tarmac back into the village I could feel the turbulence behind me. I was being used as a target and they were closing in. My pace slowed. I imagined being chased by Chuckie and his mates. The finishing straight is 100m of grass and I was well in the lead of the gurning competition as I closed in on the line, my face contorting into a hideous Munch-like feature as I squeezed everything out.  I recalled how I’d been overhauled on the flat tarmac at Goatfell after all the good work on the downhill and I vowed to finish strongly or die trying. As it was, I died strongly as Eyri M60 man 1 and Eyri M60 man 2 came past within 20m of the line and I grabbed defeat from the jaws of victory, much like Partick Thistle last season. I was only a neck ahead of Bronwen - where did she come from? It was all turning to sheet. Wet sheet. At the end the chip results gave me 10 or 15 seconds on the three locals. However, when the results came out, it was the gun time that was used for the placings and I dropped from 2^nd M60 on chip to 4^th M60, the local 'youngsters' grabbing 2^nd and 3^rd places by 1 and 2 seconds respectively. Gwych. I'm not bitter. Note to self: remember to ignore chip timing next time.

To rub salt into the wound, I found a bourbon biscuit had been lodged under my roof rack with no explanation, and, back at the accommodation, the owners hadn’t left any kindling, so we were huddled around the radiators trying to dry out until we eventually got the fire going. We toasted the soggy biscuit for dinner. 

Speedy had a good race and Marg managed not to be last or get blown off the hill, which was a victory in itself. Tidy. We all got a t-shirt and slate coaster. The good news is that my facial contortions got me a couple of seconds on the BBC programme on Welsh TV. Fat lot of good that’ll do me. On the plus side, I have got myself a new agent and a place at the Egremont Crab Fair where the world gurning championships are held. Ysblenydd. Wonder if its chipped?!