Manor Water Hill Race, 13/10/07
sheep, dog, trialThis race began in 1992 as an adjunct to the Manor Water Sheepdog Trials, and is a cracker. Just £3 to enter, one of my favourites largely because of the course but also the relaxed atmosphere and soft Autumnal surroundings. Tony drove myself and Gio (still not press-ganged into joining PRC but we're working on it,) down Peebles way with just enough time for registration and a quick once around the field to warm up before we were called to the line for this 10 mile out and back. A lot of the usual faces but not much time to chat before we set off up past the farm, round the corner and into the next field. Chris Upson led the way and I was amused to be in third place for a few hundred yards until I quickly dropped back to about 10th. It took Brian Marshall nearly 5 minutes to overtake, but having done the hard work he moved confidently to the front of the pack.
Gio and palsThe weather was nearly perfect although once up into the hills there was a chilly breeze coming at us from the West. The ground was soft, with patches of swamp now and again. I noticed on every steep bit of ground I was overtaken by a young lad. Usually chaps of his tender years (the results say j15 - I've no idea how old this makes him but he did look pleased picking up a beer at prize-giving,) in general have the grace not to run in hill races and in particular not to show up those of mature years. (I thought everyone under 20 stayed indoors all weekend texting, playstationing, and being groomed in chat-rooms?) However I did manage to regain the place every time the track levelled off. This is one of the reasons I like the course: although we are heading up to the top of the (romantically named) Scrape (past the nostalgic Dead Wife's Grave) then returning, the route climbs slowly enough to run all but the last hill, and there are even a couple of downhills on the way up to recover your composure (and re-take positions.)
On and on and then at a corner half way up the hill there's a Range Rover. No idea how it gets there but it seems to be there every year. Later, a large swathe of heather has been levelled by someone presumably with a heather-leveller (try saying that after 2 Broughton Ales) on the back of a quadbike. It makes a lovely path to run along by comparison to the turfy swampfest single-track over by the wall. After a lot more of the same we come to the last hill and I try to jog upwards for as long as possible before succumbing to hands on knees. I while away the slog up by estimating how many runners I will catch and go past on the descent. I reckoned three (including junior) but in fact that turns out to be over-optimistic by four. On reaching the top there is someone in a deckchair in oilskins sunbathing behind an umbrella. Colin Donnelly turned first but has already been overtaken by Brian Marshall by the time they passed Tony. In previous years I seem to remember running round something at the top but today there is nothing to mark the summit and the person in front was so far ahead I didn't see where he turned so I ran to the fence, slapped it and turned (suddenly there is no wind) to catch the minus one person “ahead.” Easier done than said as a Carnethy runner who must have been saving himself for the descent caught up with me in no time. I thought I was going at the maximum velocity for a body of that weight, only just managing to run and shout names at the ascending field - Willie! Gio! Scott! Tom! Tony! Dick! George! - but apparently not. The Carnethy drew alongside for a while, running shoulder to shoulder with me on the other side of the two lane quadbike trail which I found a bit disconcerting, before I hung back (actually I didn't really choose,) and he edged in front into the now single track. I could just see Junior about a minute ahead going strong. That's 2 of them I won't be teaching a lesson this time dammit.
Around this point of ebbing confidence I had a look behind to see a satisfactory gap before the next man. You almost needed binoculars, so I probably relaxed a tad too much. A couple of miles of hectic downhill later, with some ups and a stretch of swampy stuff that empties your batteries as you pile across it, and we're down to the stile a couple of fields from home. Junior and Carnethy aren't increasing their leads, and all three of us are going to pass a flagging Moorfoots so I am quite enjoying the scenery until my reverie is disturbed by the approach of the runner behind. I am only over the stile about 7 seconds ahead of him and know he'll be thinking he'll have the Moorfoots for a starter and me for pudding. Outraged by the pudding accusation I straighten my metaphorical tie and do a lightening hopscotch past some stones planted right in the path as if designed to trip tired runners, aiming for a bridge and hastening past the Moorfoots, breathing so hard I can't even say goodafternoon. A five bar metal gate ahead and while there was an option for a spectacular vault, I could see myself broken, lying on the ground looking for teeth. So I took a more modest route over the top, carefully but quickly planting a wet slippery Walsh about a third of the way up and squirming over the top. I could hear Kenny Short (8th o/40) going past the Moorfoots Starter and so I put on a last sprint round the 20 yards of tarmac up into the final field and wheezed the hundred yards from one side to the other, crossing the line without any further disgrace. I say further disgrace as each year I do this race I add about 100 seconds. I wander around a bit trying to work out why this is and if it matters (after all if you remove the teenager who is about a third of my age I nearly made top ten and the Carnethy runner is under forty...) but luckily I am stopped in my self-pitying tracks by a most unusual sight....
Willie is trying to make out why his brother Scott has evolved into a mud-man. Shortly before the end of the race, somewhere in the swampy fields Scott took a flying header into the squelch. He is covered head to toe (even getting a mouthful.)
Someone asks did he run with his hands in his pockets. Willie is reluctant to stand close for the photo. They leave quickly and head to the Peebles pool for a shower. Willie phoned later to explain and I was glad to hear Scott's injuries weren't as impressive as they appeared.
After a cup of delicious soup and a filled roll we collected for the prizegiving and despite me telling Tony I was no way up for a prize I got a bottle of beer for being seventh o/40. (As last year.)(My kind of prize-giving.) I had done the absolute minimum (with a margin of 9 seconds) to win a prize. Prizes were being given out based on proportional representation: because there were only 7 women running about half of them were rewarded. There were 4 over-sixty prizes, stopping just one short of Tony, so when an unclaimed bottle was left, Tony managed to shamelessly coerce the organiser to award it to 5th over 60; himself.
I forgot to say, everyone who crossed the finish line got a bottle of Broughton Ale's most excellent beverage, a treacly brew that would give even the most faint hearted the courage to vault a gate like a proper man. Very tasty and hopefully a tradition to be continued beyond this, the fifteenth running of an excellent race. M'off for a shower.....
Highly recommended. Big thanks to the organisers, marshals and Willie Gibson who probably had the results on the Carnethy website before the last car left the field.
Thanks to Tony for the lift.
Report and photos pb
