Matt Shone wins Welsh 40 mile track title

He represented Wales over 800m and 1500m at the 2002 Commonwealth Games, and holds our club records for 1500m & 1 mile. But the honour which Matt Shone added to a long list last Sunday had little to do with speed and much to do with a remarkably robust constitution and an enormous degree of mental strength. He writes:

"Having entered the 26th annual Barry 40 mile track race at Christmas, on something of whim, for reasons I can't quite recall, it dawned on me at 9am last Sunday that I was about to run the furthest distance of my life.

It had seemed such a 'good idea at the time' filling in my entry form with festive glee whilst looking forward to combining the race with a visit to my sister who lives only half a mile from the venue. I'd imagined a sunny spring day, sea views and a lean n' ready 2012 version of me bounding around indefinitely, weaving past rivals, enjoying every step of the competition in my homeland, the chance of a Welsh title, being a runner again.

In reality, with 45 minutes until the gun went, I found myself cowering from a deluge of water against a mock portaloo in a mossy rhomboid car park, sheltering from an icy coastal wind, trying to pin my race number on to an ill-fitting Wales vest (2003 vintage, rusted safety pins shamefully intact...) and praying that www.raintoday.co.uk would be correct in its forecast of mainly-dry-10am-onwards for the Vale of Glamorgan and Bristol Channel areas.

Jenner Park Stadium is the home of Barry Town FC, of Welsh Division One, and has played host to visits from the likes of Dynamo Kiev and Porto during the European glory years when Barry were all-conquering within the prinicipality. Today it was to welcome 20 hardy souls ready to cover a bit more distance than the average footballer in a bit more time than a 90 minute match. The personal promises, made over roast turkey with all the trimmings, to whack in 10 big weeks of mileage in advance of this challenge had not been kept. I felt seriously undercooked. With minutes to go I was still trying to decide on a strategy. Plan A was to run as far as possible, then walk/run any remaining distance to average no worse than 9 minute miling and sneak under the 6 hour cut-off time for the 161 laps -give or take 40 metres of the top bend- that somehow work out to 40 miles of burnt orange tartan. There was no Plan B.

The raintoday website hadn't let me down, the gun went and the clouds began to disperse. I toddled off with the others on the first of many circuits, enjoying the varied scenery of this hilly town from the Dow Corning chemical plant near the docks to a clutch of trees below the stadium from whence a jay fluttered. I would get to know every metre of track over the coming hours. After half a dozen trots around the regulation 400m my inner forearm nudged my paper number and I suddenly remembered I was in a race and not merely enjoying a birdwatching sightseeing ramble in South Wales, instantly I kicked on and darted up to third place, this was fun, surely every lap would be like this?

A timely reminder of my competitive mortality arrived just before 8 laps when I was lapped for the first time by the flying Scot, Grant Jeans, which led to the first of a thousand calculations to distract the mind during the day. I worked out that my 7 minute miling was nearly a minute per mile slower than the rangy Caledonian youngster in all-white livery, although I knew that he'd ran 100km recently in a smidgeon over 7 hours, that's 62.1 miles, in about 425 minutes, 6:50 per mile, faster than I was currently going, suffice to say no arithmetic could persuade me to follow him. Grant would go on to lap me another 15 times, at least, I lost count after 3, on his way to an extremely comfortable victory.

I clocked up 10 miles in around 1:10 then 20 miles in a total of about 2:23 though the race hadn't really begun, it still felt like a steady Sunday run that just happened to be on a track. I wasn't wearing a watch or counting the laps and had merely been confused by markers numbered with '5', '10', '15', etc positioned around the track, which I think referred to miles. The hope was that if I didn't know how far I'd gone then I wouldn't be scared by the stark reality of running the distance between Chigwell and Cambridge in one go.

22 miles saw the first wobble of the day and it was a serious wobble. Shooting cramps were now wracking my calves most laps, causing me to incorporate a noticeable skip into my gait every few strides, my limiting factor had been cruelly unearthed and I was still 18 miles from home. My sister was ably providing me food every few minutes (as well as cheering, lap scoring, and officially timing my efforts - both individual laps and cumulative elapsed time) and as I drifted into the wide lanes for our usual 2-3 second chat it was at this point that the tone of my requests changed. Previously I'd been chuckling instructions of "5 x jelly babies next lap please", "unpeeled banana in 4 laps!", "Snickers Duo, one piece, 3 laps from now", then enjoying the jog-alongside handover that would take place bang on schedule soon afterwards. However, with both calves screaming I barked a desperate demand of "blue shoes! Get the blue shoes ready next lap! They're in apparel bag #3 wrapped in a Woodford centenary year t-shirt! I may have to give up!". 35 seconds surrendered to the change of footwear was time well spent. In a jiffy, Nike Vaporfly (165g) racing slippers had given way to Asics Hyperspeed 5 (198g) with a bit more support. Two bends and I was cured! The next few home straight exchanges with my trusty carbohydrate-handing companion were once again jovial.

I was back in the game and back in the rhythm of 1 minute 48 second laps occupying myself by flirting as close as possible to the big digital clock on the infield curb each circuit. An exciting game of chicken four times a mile which the clock was bound to win. When I was in a dream world reciting the decimal places of Pi 3.141592653589, whispering a list of US state capitals to myself, or visualising the last 20 winners of the Eurovision Song Contest the clock ticked on, loud, proud, correct and unflinching, as if to remind me that I'd forgotten to glance at it with a nod of deference or cosy swerve.

A Tannoy announcement clicked me out of the trance with the announcement of our marathon splits. I think I was 3:09. I also picked out other odd words from the commentator (Welsh 26.2 mile legend, race organiser and all round top bloke Mick McGeoch of Les Croupiers) in the now annoyingly gusting back straight wind. They blended into the swirling backdrop and were lost in the air flow. "Vests... Strongly advise.... Due to.... It can get... Barry.... Change sooner rather than... Foolish.... Cold... Believe me.... Exposure...". Glancing around at the 17 remaining competitors I noticed I was the one person running in a vest and this wind was now chilling to the bone. This was an expert hint to heed. It was time to get another layer on, for a bit. "Next lap, black Ipswich shirt please. And some Peshwari naan from reserve snack bag #4!". I'd read the day before, on an ultra distance running website, that it was de rigueur to eat foodstuffs you enjoyed so my sister was poised with chocolates, nuts and other such treats - not to mention staples I'd practised with in the past such as flat coke (thanks Terry McCarthy) and dextro energy tablets (thanks Dave Wardle).

I wasn't really going fast enough to induce stomachry trouble so it was a time to feast on favourites. It was during one of these nosh stops at 30 miles that I spotted some of the Welsh Athletics supremos in the crowd kindly cheering me on and joking about a 'last lap kick', I waved and trundled on, slightly embarrassed that they were witnessing me shuffling around about 10 mph slower than my usual 800m exhibited in yesteryear. Still, today was a marathon not a sprint. A marathon and then a bit more. It was in this 'bit more' phase that my sister informed me -during naan provision chat #24- that I was now lying in second place overall and still leading the Welsh Championship. The classy Grant Jeans was over 3 miles ahead of me dancing around still to his own tune but I was happy to be ticking along listening to shouts of "come on Matthew!" from my 3 year old niece in the crowd and generally oddly enjoying the occasion.

I couldn't quite work out whereabouts the now remaining 14 runners were in their own personal battles with the track, this was a Le Mans sports car endurance race where laps were gained n' lost during one hell of a journey and only time would unravel all the final positions with post-race reflections revealing all the individual stories behind those positions. 6 miles to go or 'three laps of Tooting Common' in my language. All was well with the world, the sun was even peeping through, the wind was gusting but just about tamed, the minimum pre-race target of sub 6hrs was secured, sub 5hrs was also now in the bag, a Welsh title was likely, this is how I'd imagined it, chatting with my sister, looking for jays, ticking along with..BANG! BANG! Ouch! Calf is knackered again! Hop, hobble, stumble. Footwear assistance needed from my sibling. "Next lap, get the big emergency trainers ready!", "and more Peshwari naan while you're at it!". I somehow thought that if dehydration was damaging my calves then some high sodium sustenance may cure me, naans are salty aren't they? I was in deep trouble. Worst case scenario; walk the last 20 laps in discomfort and post a time of 5hrs 15 still, forget about the Welsh title. Walking was worse, I was limping badly and nearly choked on an ambitious chunk of naan, get back into the rhythm, try and run again but really really slowly with grinding teeth.

At this point a saviour arrived in the shape of Jeremy Mower of Gloucester AC, a former Welsh Champion who peppers the 5 hour barrier at the Barry 40 every year and lay third in the race, he got a lap back from me though stayed alongside -at what was now outside 8 minute miling- for a chat over the next 3 laps, I was distracted from the discomfort and genuinely enjoyed his company and words of wisdom, 'just relax, take it easy, you're 5 miles from the end, slow it right down, I'm still 5 laps behind you in the race so unless someone shoots you you're going to be Welsh Champion', from what I could make out he didn't have a firearm stowed on his person, although the mind can play tricks after 4+ hours of running.

Amazingly I came through the difficulties after these slow couple of naan and coke dominated miles with Jeremy, and kicked on with 12 laps left to count down. The calves were really bad but I was in range of the finishing line, wherever that line was on the track, it was slightly unclear if truth be told..., though I spotted a red/white cone on the top bend which I think represented 40 miles.

Anyway, I was near, almost there, the end was in sight, finally, down to 10 laps of a football pitch. Mick McGeoch handily explained via the speaker system that I was now effectively home & hosed and I should kick on and enjoy the last mile. I'd made it. At last. Morning had passed through lunchtime and become afternoon. I stretched out, I felt great, I wondered why I hadn't kicked at 25 miles to risk a 4:40 clocking, I enjoyed a final glance around the now familiar scenery, contemplated the day, waved yet again to my dependable sister and sprinted for home. I was slightly delirious and delighted, rather emotional, and not a little bleary-eyed around lap 161. Two bends of my faithful amber Barry track left to tick off. 40 miles of running was soon to be achieved. Let's kick!

A 6 minute mile had brought me home and garnered a 13th Welsh lifetime title. I was genuinely ecstatic. A fantastic day.

Such was the high gusty icy wind, merely 12 of the 20 hearty starters finished. The post-race chat was heavy with mutual respect. These ultra-distance types are kind folk, it seems a tight-knit community which I may revisit one day.

Matt Shone

ps I'm now wondering how on earth Pheidippides managed 150 miles in two days back in ancient Greece, and can only presume he enjoyed a healthy supply of Peshwari naans en route."