Annagh Hill - Handle with Caution

12 April, 2024 - Alice Clancy

I’d heard stories about Annagh Hill, whispers of Barkley style suffering and despair in a small innocuous looking piece of wexford woodland…..and had managed to successfully avoid it for years….. This year though, I’d set myself some challenges, to try things that scare me…with the thinking - sure what’s the worst that could happen? Now I know the answer to that question: Mud with its own gravitational pull.

With the Galty Crossing firmly in my sights, Annagh Hill, a mere slip of a 10-ish k with a third the climb seemed like a good race to train on and complete the Spring League in the process. Two birds with one stone. It was also my birthday, so I felt pretty confident that the gods were smiling on me as they do on one’s birthday (surely). I felt delighted with myself altogether as the sun came out and remnants of Storm Kathleen abated on the drive down, carpooling with Paul & Ange and chatting about everything from politics to the pure mile, with a good dollop of Kilmac thrown in, because how could you not talk about Kilmac.

The Gap pub is a lovely little spot, with a helpful view of the hill and what was ahead. There it was now, wall stretching upwards from the forest. But hills always look big before you climb them. Undeterred, I decided to warm up, seeing as I had opted to do the main start. Yup, notions - even a warmup…..clearly I had no clue what was ahead.

At the race start, IMRA’s Lazarus Lake, RD Mick Hanney asked if there were any first-timers on the race today. A good few people raised their hands. Brave souls. I hope they come back when they have recovered. There was a brief countdown and suddenly we were off, along the fire road. This was grand!

The first indication that something might be terribly wrong was when we came through the wall and started up Annagh Hill. The smugness dissipated about 10m in, as I watched Sia and Clare disappear somewhere vertically above and I started feeling like I was going backwards. I gritted my teeth, telling myself that it was just a hill, and once we’ve climbed it we had a lovely run along the top before descending again……I clambered on, seeing someone stationary come into view above. Could it be Nora? Could this climb be almost done? Great!
Alas no, it was Fortune, first time IMRA photographer, but already clearly a master at choosing the spot where most grimaces could be captured. On we went, struggling upwards. I felt at that point that we must be a good few k in, and was marvelling at how deceptively small Annagh Hill looks on the maps before I checked my watch. Cool, cool cool, we were 1.2k in. The first of many curses escaped at that point.

Eventually, Nora came into view, directing us onto the trail. A trail! Great. Now for some running. But this wasn’t a well-mannered trail….big rocks, deep wide puddles that if you ran into threatened an ankle roll at best, and muck, inglorious muck…..I parkoured my way through it, trying to push as much as I could….and then my heart sank…were we climbing again?. How??? Stuart disappeared ahead, and I gave up trying to keep up with him, settling into my own slower pace.

Finally a stretch of downhill brought some respite…but only just - it was tricky underfoot with loose stones and impossible to switch off and let the legs go….but I thought at that point we had the bulk of the climbing done for the race, so I was happy. Matthew appeared at the base of the hill. Hmmm…..that meant we were only 3k-ish in. This race seemed to be defying the laws of time and distance. Up we went again into the forest and then Imogen directed us down over some roots and rocks and more mud. The mud made everything harder. Downhill didn’t feel like downhill. I managed to pass Tommy somewhere amongst the trees, and the smug delighted with myself feeling returned. Ok so this was hard but I was getting somewhere. Little did I realise Tommy with his 800-race wisdom was holding his powder for the way back.

We turned down by Andre and into a farm trail that had been mashed up, deep deep muck everywhere. The only option was to get high up on either side and pick around it, but even so it was impossible to avoid it to get to the next part of the trail. At this point my leg muscles were screaming at me…..Several more curses escaped, as I passed Syl (I think - mud had blurred my vision at that point), wading my way through the muck to the next section of the trail…with the lead runners starting to appear, on their way back home. Something seemed a little off. They looked tired. A few of them looked like they had been dragged through a hedge backwards. Also, they usually pass me on an out and back far sooner…..Naturally I thought this meant I was running really fast and was great altogether. Sense should have prevailed but sense is for the young.

I struggled on along what should have been a beautiful forest path, but again sticky muck made it far less enjoyable….some of the early starters came into view, destroyed looking, no chats today, apart from Ange yelling at me to ‘pick up a stick for the way back up’…..I looked around me and just before the trail turned right were a few sticks handily discarded at the side of the trail. I grabbed one. That was the only sensible decision I made on Annagh Hill. As I have come to realise, and despite how much it pains me to admit it, Ange is usually right.

The trail turned right, and suddenly I was on my ass, sledding downwards while trying to grab at some abused looking trees on the right hand side. Ah, nice to meet you oh dreaded slippy Connahill. I got up, trying to cling to those poor trees and work my way down using the stick and the branches and what was left of my legs, but no technique seemed to work. The muck was slippy but also sticky. It pulled your feet in, and you couldn’t skip over the top of it, but then it had no real grip either and every second step down you’d go. I looked around me - everywhere were people grimly endeavouring down and then back up the hill, trying every form of technique - two sticks, one stick, backwards, forwards, crawling, rolling, crying. The only commonality seemed to be ending up face down in the muck at some point.

Amongst the mass of humanity stood one lone upright figure. Andy - zoom lens whirring, shutter clicking, picking us off one by one, like a big game hunter. He seemed to have a knack for catching us at the most ridiculous point in the endeavour….He caught me when I had given up all hope of staying upright and was trying a sophisticated all fours backward technique. Ah the glamour!

Eventually, I made it down to Philip, who was standing at the bottom of the hill laughing. He was the happiest person I had seen so far. (Mick on the finish line later took this crown). Ok- so the way back up couldn’t be as bad as the way down. I took a route amongst the bigger trees on the right, thinking I could use them to drag myself up, and surely the muck couldn’t be as deep amongst the roots. Wrong again. Despite what felt like huge efforts, and the handy stick, while time sped on, I seemed to stay still, very helpfully around where Andy was taking photographs and able to capture the severe slowness of the effort. That hill felt like the world in Interstellar where the astronauts spent a few minutes, but meanwhile decades passed on earth. Tommy passed me just as we hit the trail at the top. All smugness was gone. I just wanted to get home and roll up in a ball on the couch and never venture out again. I was glad to leave the stick back at the top of the trail, thinking at least that muck was over, all we had now was some trail, fireroad, zig-zags then home. I had forgotten the different loop on the way back.

Slogging up to Andre, he directed us right onto the new trail and then the fireroad. Sia waited for me at this point, thinking now was a good time to have catch up chats. He backed off quickly when he heard the sounds coming out of me. At least, as I tried to answer his questions, I caught sight of the marking back up the hill. I almost didn’t want to say anything, and continue on the fireroad, but realised this had to be the shorter way home, so up we went. At this point Deirdre motored past, and Sia realising that there was a better chance of chats and racing, bounced off up the hill with her. I tried to keep up and keep them in my sights but to no avail. I was on my own, on this seemingly never-ending uphill, plodding yet again through muck and rock and puddles and despair*.

Finally, I made it back to Nora, who was now chilling out in the wind beneath an umbrella, surveying the view. At least, I thought, it’s all fire road from here, and the zig-zags should be fast descending, and then we’d be done. What followed was simply more torture. The rocks on the road were loose, my ankles rolled ominously, forcing me to slow down, tired muscles meaning that my joints felt every plod. At this point some jellies that I’d eaten with the aim of getting some energy to catch Sia and Deirdre on the way down helpfully formed a stitch all the way up my right side. Every second step I gasped and cursed. Finally, slowly, the bottom of the hill and the turn left to the finish came closer.

Hobbling, grimacing, cursing and caked in muck, I made it to the finish line. Mick, I’m sorry for what I said next, but after reading the above, it might make it slightly more understandable! That route is a beast!!! I don’t know how you managed to concoct it, but it has to be the hardest of that distance in the IMRA calendar. I’m willing to be proved wrong, but don’t want to sample the other contenders!!

Strangely enough, I didn’t want to stay long at the finish line, limping down to the warm safety of the pub, well and truly defeated. The camaraderie, soup, sandwiches chats and delicious birthday cake surprise baked by Ange, and celebrating Tommy’s 800th achievement helped bring me back to the land of the living. Congratulations Tommy, and thank you Ange for your thoughtfulness.

A huge thank you to Mick and his team of volunteers. The race was really well marked, marshalled and organised. Everything ran like clockwork, allowing us to ‘enjoy’ the route. Despite all my moaning above, I do recommend this race, (it’s in a beautiful spot with a deceptive amount of climbing and great training, and also fun) with the caveat to handle with caution - it’s quite the test of fitness, optimism and laws of physics ;-)

*Disclaimer: This effects of this race may or may not have been dramatised by the presence of a woeful hangover on the part of the runner

Warren Swords

10 April, 2024

I was greatly inspired by the number of runners picking up their milestone t-shirts for the hundreds of IMRA races completed at the weekend. 400 races! 600! 800! Incredible achievements.

I recently watched the last episode of the magnificent Curb Your Enthusiasm. (no spoilers) After 110 episodes, the final ep was titled "No Lessons Learned."

Annagh Hill was my 168th race and well, "no lessons learned." I arrived late to the start with a straight out of the box, never worn before pair of shoes.

I get exasperated reading shoe reviews that go along the lines of: "these shoes require some breaking in but after 100km, they feel great!" I'm not paying €150 to be uncomfortable for hours in the hope they may be comfortable at some unspecified time in the future.

If the shoes don't feel good on Annagh Hill I figured, they've no right calling themselves trail shoes.

A sidenote - I am still entertained by the reviews of Nike's Zegama trail shoe. I presume it's named after the iconic Zegama mountain race in Spain which is famed for the Tour De France style crowds and the often wet and muddy conditions. One review said the Nike Zegama shoe "Handles water like the Titanic" while another writes: "Once again, a Nike shoe that checks almost all the boxes gets disqualified because you might kill yourself running in the rain." Tremendous.

So here is my shoe review straight out of the box.

At the start line, my new shoes, Inov8's Mudtalons Speed received a few oooohs and ahhhs as I declared they were fresh out of the box.

Off the race goes and the shoes are feeling pretty good from the off. Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty good. Up the steep wall, there's a small group of us together hiking up. Peter O'Farrell, who annoyingly calls himself a cyclist, effortlessly breaks away from us.

The shoes are amazingly grippy and very comfy as we make the top. A stiff wind made it a bit harder to get the legs going and an eager Mick Dowling soon passes me to indicate racing is very much underway after a sort of neutralised zone.

Onto the ridge, myself and Mick start to pull away from those around us as the terrain becomes ever more technical with deep ruts, pools and rocks to be negotiated. Sometimes, it's quicker to run along the top of a rut like a balance beam while others times, ploughing straight through some pools. Again the grip is fantastic, not a hint of a slip.

We are matching each other for pace as the descent gets steeper. Mick takes a fall on a stone section. After a quick check to see he's ok, we race on. I decide to push the pace a bit on the downhill, figuring any runner who has taken a fall, it usually knocks the confidence for a short time. Across some slippery rock slabs and the grip is less than impressive.

Back through some trees, mud and single track and the shoes are performing way above expectation. Every foot placement holds giving confidence to pick faster and steeper lines. I get into the Flow here, those rare moments in a race where it feels effortless. Onto the slip and side and onto my arse ends the flow. Making the turn around, I grind back out of the pit of despair. The first signs of discomfort appear with my left heel feeling a bit of rub, probably due to the steep hiking. Or you know, I've never worn them before.

I can sense Mick is still close behind so push on the fireroad. An awkward foot placing causes a rock to bounce up and hits me right on the ankle bone. That left a bruise. Getting dangerously close to redlining but I figure my road running training will give me an advantage on the flat so push on to try and get a gap before the steep climb resumes any minute now. Except it didn't.

Another 800 metres and the trail suddenly ends. Ho hum. I jog back the 800 and find the turn off and tape staring me in the face.

I enjoyed the climb back along the ridge at a more relaxed pace and initially had the idea of trying to set a Strava segment on the last descent, Enduro Falls. But jaysus, the rocky section was a killer on the soles of my feet, not a lot of cushioning or protection for this sort of terrain, similar to the rocks on Sugarloaf.

Sidenote: Whoever has the all-time segment record on Enduro Falls must be an incredible downhill runner, hats off to them.

Finish the race and once the adrenalin wears off, my heal is killing me. I developed a nice sore on the heel from rubbing. The extra mile probably didn't help but nothing a compeed won't sort out.

My verdict on the Inov8 Mudtalon Speed? A fantastic shoe straight out of the box, great for Irish conditions. I imagine this shoe will be fantastic on the likes of Brockagh and other sloppy races.

A slippery slope.

09 April, 2024 - Enda Cloake

Sometimes I feel a bit of imposter syndrome when I tell people I’m running a local Wexford race. I feel like the Irish - Americans of Boston coming to Temple Bar for St Patrick’s Day for their €17 pints of plain and traditional Irish spice bags. The truth is, I have ran very few of the Wexford hills on the IMRA calendar in the 20 years I lived there. The height of my hill running came from running up Summerhill to St. Peter’s College at lunchtime after collecting my SuperValu carvery roll and Mooju down by College Green. Back then I wore Clarkes on my feet, not Salomons.

Despite my imposter syndrome, I enjoy making the road trip to race in my homeland, I get to show my partner that there’s a whole world outside of D2.

After a French Foreign Legion-esque breakfast of black coffee and a croissant we hop in the car on Sunday morning and head for the M11. I like a later start. I wondered if the late start had anything to do with the opening hours of the Gap Pub. I like to arrive a minute or two before registration closes to get the heart rate up. It helps with the warm up or something like that. Parked up and out the car into the pub I see a sign on the door warning about a free running dog. It’s a sleepy collie type. Probably wouldn’t cause a fuss if I swiped that bottle of Green Spot behind the bar. Registration complete, mandatory kit in the belt and shoes on, I head to the start. Like the Maurice Mullins, Annagh Hill gets harder and longer each year. I look forward to the Annagh Hill Ultra in the Spring of 2028. However, Annagh Hill is not a trial race for any national team. I think about how the world’s elite would feel about racing on Annagh Hill. Remi Bonnet would surely bring the skis. Francesco Puppi mortified at the pineapple on his €19 pizza and pints deal in the pub. Nevertheless, it doesn’t take away from the talent that shows up to Annagh. From first timers to 800+ers, we were all there. I wasn’t sure which category Warren fell into with his fresh out the box runners. RD extraordinaire Mick gave us the brief. I do my best to ignore absolutely everything about the course I’m about to run. That way when I get lost I have an excuse. Mark McAdden tells me we’re coming back down the steep grassy section on the way back. 27.5% gradient, he says. No quicker going down than back up. I decide to follow the flags and let Jesus take the wheel. Race brief complete, 10 seconds to start. We start, and Peter takes the lead. I remembered from the course last year that the small section of fire road gives way to single track leading to the wall, so I needed to get some space. The Great Wall of Annagh leads straight to the top along some half tracks through the grass. Some would say it’s free route choice. I think it’s going to be tough either way, so best do the least distance and go straight up. Running turns to hiking. I don’t mind hiking. It can be more efficient, albeit slower, than trying to jog uphill. Redlining early on this course is a death wish. It felt good hiking up the hill with just a jacket, buff and gloves to carry. Two days previous I was leading a navigation exercise around the Sally Gap with 50lbs on the back and waterlogged boots, not featherlight Salomons.

I reached the top, right turn, over the wall, left turn, onto the ridge. It’s hard to get an idea of time gaps between runners when climbing that hill. 20m could take 30 seconds to cover. On the ridge line I got a better idea. Maybe 15 seconds back to 2nd. Not great, not terrible. On the top was a lot of standing water, but at least the wall sheltered us from the wind. No point in going around, get through and get on with it. I meet Matthew around 3km in. It’s a pretty intuitive course but always good to check in with the marshals. Mick runs a tight ship. Straight through and up into the forest. Lots of roots, slabs, puddles, moss, water. Fast, but tricky. I remember Ian Conroy took a tumble here two years ago. I think a slip on one of the wet slabs of rock. They are inconveniently located at downward angles so easy to slip, trip and fall. A risk assessment’s nightmare. I made it through safely and onto a fast boggy descent. I couldn’t see second, but that didn’t mean much. Right turn onto the track junction. No yield sign and drive straight through into the shaded forest tunnel. I look back, I’ve company in Ben Mangan. I meet some early starters on the way back looking like they’ve finished a week in the trenches. Right turn down the water slide. Previous years only came up this side, this year we went down, 180, and straight back up. I dug my heels into the soft soil and tried to stop my momentum. It worked well until it didn’t. I fell twice but it probably quickened my overall pace. Down the bottom and straight back up. I tried to stay out of the way of the fast descenders and stayed to the right, using the trees for grip. This race converted me to a tree hugger. I pass Ben on his way down. I hope he’s wearing slippers. Angela Flynn is using Gandalf’s staff to haul herself up. An eco friendly Leki pole of some sort. I reach the top, left turn, flat shaded tunnel and pick up the pace. I hadn’t been well all week and hadn’t eaten much. I didn’t know if I had the reserves for a sprint finish. I follow the flags and get out onto a rare sight of fire road. I see an early starter to my upper left on a steep ascent off the main track. I see a piece of tape. Must be turning off. Many runners missed this turn, likely blinded by the luscious Wexford sunshine. I move through the scree and reach the top. Right turn, left turn, wave at Matthew, right turn, and back on the ridge. I pass both short course runners and early starters. Easy to tell the difference between the two. Early starters had muck on their back and shoulders. This took me to almost 9km and most of the hard work was done. I eased up slightly. No need to put myself in a hole. Nothing to gain but lots to lose. I run through puddles and reach the wall. Left turn this time along the zig zags, and not down the grassy bit on my bum. I was lied to. The zig zags seem to go on forever. I skip over the stones and build up some speed. No glass ankles today. If I break my ankle now I could maybe roll to the finish. Zig zags end and open up to the fire road and onto the home stretch. The finishing straight lined with cones like a runway for an incoming 747. Both the 747 and I are in dire need of some maintenance. I crossed the finish line relatively unscathed. Mick asks me about the course. I tell him it’s a pig. He doesn’t argue. Finish line chats reveal an IMRA first; I wasn’t one of the few that took a wrong turn. A double win in my books. The wind had stopped and sun had come out. Strawberry weather.

Wexford hills maybe don’t get the credit they deserve as they aren’t the biggest or baddest. The height of the hill doesn’t dictate the difficulty. I would argue Maulin to be harder than Djouce. A flight of stairs can be difficult after a good Christmas dinner.
But Annagh has it all. A brute of a first climb, standing water, walking sticks and a slide at the turnaround. Fair weather runners need not apply. Or do. Regardless of how the race went, the pub made up for it. Ladies’ football on the telly, pints flowing, sandwich pinching, tea stirring, soup slurping, what’s not to love? Raffles tickets handed out, speeches made, cakes cut, there was something for everyone. Matthew won a spot prize for best man bun. He didn’t take wine and instead opted for a lowlands map of Killarney. Brown envelopes must’ve been exchanged and through corruption even the Soviets would be proud of, I didn’t win a spot prize. At least the racing was honest.

Annagh Hill and tree trunks

07 April, 2024 - Declan McInerney

The word "anticipation" is thrown around a lot sometimes. From the spacious environs of the Gap Pub car park, we could observe the gradient of the slope that awaited us, a thought-provoking prospect to keep in mind as we spent a pleasant while engaging in harmless banter. I managed to present a commemorative t - shirt to someone who has probably forgotten more about running than I will ever know, James Higgins on 452 races I believe and volunteering today. Then it was back out into the sunshine for an easy jog to the start and some good advice from fellow joggers on navigating the “black slope” to be found before the turn around at the end of this course. This greatly added to the sense of anticipation particularly the words “You won’t hurt yourself at all”. On to the start, where some words of wisdom from Mick put everyone at ease.
The start was very nice but whatever happened after that now seems a little blurry, please dispense with any expectations of accuracy or coherence in this report if you haven’t already. There were lots of runners ascending at a ferocious pace while some trudged upwards in more dismal fashion. There was again a great sense of anticipation that somehow soon we would reach “the top”. Eventually we made our way onto a ridge which came as a welcome relief. And then onwards through some nice mucky conditions and a few lagoon sized puddles to be avoided before heading down through the woods to find the much anticipated “black slope”. This proved to be well named and many took the race director’s advice, resorting to fearfully clutching at passing trees on the way down or at least that’s what I did anyway. A little turn around the helpful marshal and then it was time to go back up the same “black slope”. I resorted to the same tactic of fearfully grabbing tree trunks in order to prevent slipping back down, all in all a brilliant tactical decision I feel.
Eventually we emerged from the trees back onto the trail for the long haul back where on the remaining ascent things got blurry again and I abandoned any pretence of trying to keep up with runners in front. Finally a steep downhill twisty stony trail and back to the start/finish! The weather was magnificent, the hills amazing, the organisation, soup and sambos in the Gap afterwards fantastic. No more could be demanded from any ski holiday, book your place on the slopes for this race early next year. Massive thanks to the Race Director and his team of volunteers, this course is truly mammoth.