Thomas Bubendorfer

21 August, 2009

Mangerton!

or

You can’t run a mountain too hard – you will collapse well before it is hurt.

One important part of my marathon training this summer has been to race every fortnight. I still can’t believe how well the race calendar has supported this idea. There was a race every 2 weeks within Kerry, something that would have been unheard of until this year. I took full advantage of this, but my luck seemed to have run out this weekend – until I checked the website of the Irish Mountain Running Association.

The race up Mangerton Mountain near Killarney had me interested for a few years, and with the race seemingly fitting into my calendar I decided to be adventurous and give this one a go. I had vague ideas of a training run before the race, but that never came to fruition. My first mountain race would be on unknown territory.

Information on the website was sparse and we got there in good time to be safe. Alas, there was nobody there apart from 2 guys who were looking to run the race as well but didn’t have any more information either. Over the next half hour more people arrived, and eventually it transpired that we were supposed to sign up in the pub at the bottom of the road, but the organiser would come up and we could sign up at the trailhead. As Paul Michell stated in his race report, I was rather edgy. Honestly, this was due to me being nervous before my very first mountain race, no matter what national stereotypes Paul is trying to re-inforce, but never mind.

I was a bit self-conscious because I only had street runners, but there was no need to worry. While the proper mountain runners had proper trail shoes, at least half of the field were in attire similar to mine. We got some explanation of the course, which left me and almost everyone else thinking they’d follow the person in front, and then we were finally off. I started halfway down the field, not knowing what was in store.

It became very clear very soon that running up that steep, rocky mountain path was not in store. Not for me, and not for the vast majority of competitors either. The trail was very uneven, and you had to be careful every time you planted your foot. It was also very steep, at least from a roadrunner’s point of view. After a while I found myself right behind a lady who later turned out to be the winner of the lady’s competition. I noticed two things. First, it’s better to keep at least 2 steps distance, otherwise you won’t be able to see where you are going to put your foot. Secondly, she was running and I was hiking but could keep up easily, and I’m sure I spent a lot less energy. For the first 1.5 miles this was the most brutal climb I had every experienced. Despite me walking, the heart rate was consistently in the high 170s, and more than once I nearly ended up flat on my face. The calves were screaming, and I was still only in the middle of the climb. Eventually, after an absolute age, it became a bit flatter, and I was able to run a bit. I was surprised how well I was running here compared to the people around me – I moved up 3 or 4 positions in a short space of time. Then it was time for walking again.

Close to the 2-mile point we turned off the path towards the left. I would have missed it on my own, but luckily I had others to follow. The organiser had mentioned something about boggy ground. I very soon found out how boggy when my right leg disappeared up to its knee in mud (or whatever that was). Luckily the shoe was still there when I managed to pull out my foot at the second attempt. “Welcome to mountain running”, Paul remarked dryly. The next half mile was probably the worst bit, very steep and with very bad footing. But it eventually became worthwhile when we emerged into the Devil’s Punchbowl, a little mountain lake surrounded by the high ridge of Mangerton Mountain itself. The view was breathtaking, but there was still a race going on and we hurried along the flatter piece, only to end up at what looked like a nearly vertical cliff face. I tried not to think about what would happen if I slipped here, and on more than one occasion had to use all fours to pull myself further up towards the peak. We arrived at the top all in one piece, and, following the ridgeline, soon saw the cairn that marked the top. It had taken me 47 minutes for the 3 miles (and 2100+ feet elevation gain).

Following the ridgeline further was pretty terrifying. One yard to the right was a seemingly vertical drop of 300 feet towards the lake and I actually ran 2 yards beside the trail, too scared to get any closer to the edge.

And then down we went. Initially I lost contact to the 2 guys ahead of me. Running down a steep mountain slope is an art that I haven’t mastered yet due to lack of practise. “Don’t do anything stupid, think of Dingle”. I was fully prepared to sacrifice a few places in the field in order to arrive back down safely. It was still hairy at times, with rocks tripping me and me almost planting my face on more than one occasion. One guy disappeared into the distance, but I could still see the other one ahead of me, which greatly assisted navigation. Eventually I must have gotten into the swing of things, I stopped losing ground, and to my surprise nobody ever appeared from behind. One (originally very very fast) runner was walking down the track having pulled both of his quads, but he managed to get down by himself eventually. And I surprised myself by getting closer to the frontrunner, mostly by successfully cutting a few corners and descending down the most direct route whenever possible. Eventually I even managed to overtake, again by taking a more direct route. This had the disadvantage of having to find my own way from here on, but the path was reasonably clear and I managed. I could see another runner further ahead, but even though I got closer towards the end I never threatened him.

On the flatter bits I tried to actually run, and was surprised to feel the quads burning. On the steep descends I was so concentrated on not falling that I didn’t feel any pain; it was the flat bits that hurt. However, I could always hear footsteps not far behind which urged me on, and I never dared to slow down. Since I always had to fully concentrate on the trail ahead I was never tempted to look behind though. Eventually we got to the last bit, I once again almost keeled forwards and just about managed to catch myself with my hands, and then I crossed the line in 1:13:42, not that the time has any real meaning on such a course, a bit shorter than 10k.

I am sore in places that I never knew would be used for running. My calves, my quads and my lower back are all tender, and the rest is recuperating as well. I have my doubts how useful that was as preparation for the Dingle marathon, but as an afternoon of fun it received full marks, and then some. Watching the top racers defy gravity on the climb was awesome, and unfortunately I was nowhere near to admire their descending skills, but they have my full respect. The friendly banter at the end was fun, and I will be doing that again.

Niamh was slightly less amused, having dealt with 4 fighting children for 2 hours. She announced next year she’d be the one running up the mountain and I would be minding the cantankerous brood. Oh dear.

Paul Mitchell

19 August, 2009

Stigmata Knobble Top Finish!

I’d been looking forward to the Mangerton run since the start of the season. When at home in the Kingdom it’s one of my regular Sunday jaunts so I was very interested to see what it would be like to descend from the summit full speed ahead.

In my opinion Mangerton is one of the most spectacular mountains in the county. It’s located to the south of Killarney and has magnificent views of the Lakes. There is a small corrie lake called the Devils Punchbowl just below the summit on the northern side which drains into the Owengarriff river. To the east of the Devils Punchbowl a steep narrow ridge takes you up to the summit. On your left as you climb the ridge you will see a second corrie lake down below in Horses glen called lough Erhogh. The gradient to Horses glen is very steep and potentially dangerous. You might recall a Swedish Soldier on a hike went missing here in 2004. His body was found at the bottom of the cliff two years later.

As an aside, the Owengarriff river runs along the ‘Old Kenmare Road’ between Torc Mountain and Mangerton. The “Old Kenmare Road” would make a brilliant trail run at some stage.

The weather was quite heavy in the days leading up to the race. Luckily, if not surprisingly, we had a good shower of rain on Saturday night and that cleared the atmosphere so that on the morning of the race we had a beautiful sunny day with the clouds high in the sky.

I arrived at the start about an hour before the off so that I would be able to lend a hand if needed. Those in the know were down in Molly Darcy’s registering – the rest of us were hanging around wondering if we were in the right place at all. Eventually Majella Diskin turned up and she was able to contact the Race Director who assured us he would be up in a couple of minutes. Once I knew I was in the right place I was relaxed enough – knowing how things go in this part of the world – my new Austrian friend Thomas seemed a little on edge about the fact that it was now 1 o’clock and no Race Director. It was a useful opportunity to confirm our racial stereotypes. All’s well that ends well and Tom Blackburn arrived shortly afterword and quickly set about registering the rest of us. In all we had a troupe of 32 hardy souls including a number of American tourists who turned out to be no fools when it comes to hill running.

From the gun I led out with no long term plan other then to avoid the scrum at the start. As the gradient became more severe I drifted back through the field. Tom passed me after about 100m followed by some club mates. To my shame even the Americans passed me – on my own hill! – where is the respect?

There is a pretty well define path which winds its way up to the lake. Some of the more nimble amongst us went cross country to good effect. The underfoot conditions were similar to running along a dry rocky river bed. The path levels out for a hundred metres up to a low dry stone wall which bounds the Kerry National Park. At the wall we turn left up the hillock over looking the Devils Punchbowl from the north. A number of people passed me at this stage including my Austrian friend. Our instructions were to traverse clockwise around the lake, keeping to the high ground as far as possible. The runners that had just passed me ran down to the lake which probably cost them 20 or 30 seconds. Around the lake we scrambled up the ridge to the summit. I could hear my Austrian friend heaving below – not unlike the sound of a cow calving. Kieran Collins who had just passed me asked me was he alright but didn’t stop to find out. And finally the summit. A narrow track takes you along the side of the cliff overlooking the lake. Had a couple of anxious moments as I wobbled along the path but luckily I retained my balance. It was great to be able to stretch the legs again. Passed Kieran on the summit and made my way rapidly down the scree slope on the eastern side of the summit. Looking out to the right over the lake I could see some heads bobbing not to far off – something to chase.

I knew I was in trouble by the time I had descended below the Devils Punchbowl. The rubbing I felt on my insole as I scrambled over the scree slope down from the summit had turned into a low heat. Passed a Munster man before reaching the dry stone wall again. He told us later that he was running in borrowed shoes – a size too small. Next Dermot Murphy who had all but stopped having pulled a quad at some point. Shouting the regulation ‘Are you alright?’ and receiving a satisfactory response I continued without breaking my stride. The path levelled out from the wall and I was able to run without much pain and make some ground on the two runners in front. As the gradient increased however the pain started to increase. The descent was very challenging with lots of sharp turns and braking. By the time I passed Damien Cunningham, who was having a great run, the pain was shooting up my legs. I should have stopped at this point but it’s not in my nature. My nature is to be stupidly competitive and to suffer the consequences. As I tried to stretch out the stride and really go for it the pain was intense so I it was all I could do to maintain my position. Although the runner in front was quite close and I was feeling good otherwise there was no way my feet were going to put up with any more abuse. The pain was making me slightly light headed and I tripped on grassy slope – giving Damien great heart – as he told me later.

Pain shooting up my legs, Damien breathing down my back, racing headlong through bog, briar and rubble – would it ever end? Bursting through the last bramble bush, the end 50m ahead I sprinted with all my might.20m to go, 10m, 5m – yoaaa, crash, bang wallop. In front of the cheering, adoring crowds, I clipped a rock and fell headlong on to the ground about 1m from the finish line. Only just managing to drag myself across before Damien caught me. It was quite a splash and impressed the Americans no end.

As I sat down by the stream which marks the finish I could see the blood stains in the shoes and knew that taking off my socks was not going to be pleasant.

It’s now Wednesday I’ve been hobbling around for 3 days with holes the size of 2 euro pieces in my soles since Sunday. The swelling on my right foot is not too bad and I can almost walk on my left foot. Hopefully I’ll be able to run again by the weekend –the cross-country season is almost upon us and God knows I badly need the practice.

Thanks to Tom Blackburn and family for organising a great race. The sangwidges were mighty and there was no end of tea – I’ve noticed a little more hair on my chest so it must have been Barrys. Well done to Tom for winning and to all the other winners and runners alike. Looking forward to doing it all again next year.