Smoking kills

I'll explain about the title at the end of the blog. Having read some books on writing recently, the reader is supposed to be kept in suspense until the end. So here goes ...

Race day in Murat. Murat is a small town in the Cantal with a population of just over 2000 inhabitants. Situated in the Alagnon valley it is just East of the Plomb du Cantal, part of the massif central, the mountains that separate Aurillac from Murat. The town is at an altitude of 900 metres and overlooking the town is a large, white statue of the Virgin Mary some 140m above. The race was to run from the town centre to the statue.

I'd seen news of the race in the running magazines prior to coming down to Aurillac and I didn't know what to expect. How many people took part, what the times were to get to the top, nothing. So when I arrived with all the family in the town square, it was a relief to see plenty of other runners, some more serious than others. I signed on at the town hall and was told that I was 28th to start. The runners are set off at 30 second intervals, with the timing and places finally determined at the top. I did a little warm up through the streets of the town and my fears were confirmed: the roads were very steep around here.

I lined up with a real motley crew for the start. About half a dozen runners were dressed up as old women with brooms, shopping baskets, and feather dusters. A couple of men, dressed as ambulance men, were carrying a stretcher with a baby doll lying inside. I watched nervously as the crowd disappeared one by one at 30 second intervals and soon enough it was my turn to start.

The adrenaline had begun to flow and I set off briskly up through the streets of the town, winding between the few shops and bars situated there. It seemd that a large part of the poulation were in the streets, shouting and clapping as the "nutters" set off up the hill. This was a real boost and as I left the town, I had almost caught the runner who had set off before me. The lactic was also rising and now my speed reduced somewhat and it seemd like ages before I could pull alongside this first runner and noticed that 2 more runners were also within my grasp as the tarmac gave way to a gravel path up the hill.

"Ici commence l'enfer" - Hell starts here had been written in chalk on the last of the tarmac, but actually the slope felt easier here. I passed the 2, a father and daughter, who had set off a minute and 90 seconds before me respectively. As I left the trees on the first part of this slope more crowds were encouraging the runners, "Profitez du faux-plat". The incline eased and the path was flat for all of 50 metres before it turned sharply left and headed what felt like vertically up the final slope. My pace slowed, my stride shortened and it felt as though I was at walking speed now. In fact, my ungs and legs were aching and I walked 50m up the steepest section before breaking into a jog again. I could see the top now and hear Laurence and Paul encouraging me on up the final 100m. As I turned the last corner, I was caught in turn by 2 runners who had set off after me and I finished seconds after them. 1.37km and 130m higher than the start. I finally finished in 8:17 seconds according to my watch the slowest I've ever run over the distance at a speed of 6 minutes/km or 10 km/h. If I believe the fell-running adage then every 100m of height gained is equivalent to 1km. This would give me an equivalent time of 8:17 for 2.67km which equates to 3:06 per km. Slightly excessive perhaps, but it makes me feel a darn sight better.

I sat down at the top, my lungs were bursting and I felt sick. Luckily I hadn't eaten anything 6 hours prior to racing, or I am sure that it would have been covering the top of the Rocher de Bonnevie by now. To cap it all, my legs were like jelly. As I recovered on the top, the coughing began and I spent the next 2 hours coughing to sooth my lungs. I hadn't coughed like this for a good 20 years when I used to have to finish every training run by running up Causey Hill. So much for not smoking.