Anyway, the weekend in question, or questionable weekend - 17th & 18th September 2005 - saw the aforementioned intrepid 'Dooners' set a course for Exmoor and beyond, to the picturesque resorts of Lynton and Lynmouth, to partake in much ale tasting, lots of silliness and if everyone felt o.k. and the weather was alright, a spot of light running. All this slap bang in the middle of R.D. Blackmore country - you know ... Lorna's Doom and all that! Provisions for the journey were obtained enroute and consisted solely of sweets and cakes, tons of which were greedily devoured, mostly it has to be noted by the 3 Billy Bunters wedged firmly in the back seat.
Intoxicated by sugars and E numbers everyone became far too excitable, behaving like a bunch of mischievously behaved school kids on an outing to the seaside. Our driver for the weekend (who'd just sneakingly won the 'guess what 80's track that was' competition – 'cause it was his CD) reacted stranger than most. Deciding that we needed to get there 'quicker' his repeated attempts at trying to coax the vehicle in front to speed up a long the twisting moorland roads were reminiscent and indeed about as successful as Dick Dastardlies deeds in The Wacky Races. Drat and double drat.
Suffice it to say upon reaching our destination we were all in need of some
alcoholic refreshment, and so hastily retired to the Rising Sun for a few swift halves.
Composure restored we ventured outside for an amble. Admiring the wonderful surroundings (the fudge shops mostly) it was impossible not to conclude that, stunning though the scenery was, it all seemed to go up. You could easily get neck ache looking at it. More worryingly, leg ache running over it. I should mention that the Lynton, Lynmouth area carries the monicker 'Little Switzerland'. I reckon its 'cause all hills are shaped like a piece of Toblerone! Next we endeavoured to resolve the little matter of our accommodation for the night. Ignoring the psychotic pleas of Mr Bates to reside at his Motel we happened upon a couple of B&B's up in Lynton, just beyond the Overlook Hotel.
Although resembling the Munsters holiday home, inside they were comfortable and homely establishments - except my home does not have crocheted tissue box covers in it. Fluffy toilet roll cover maybe. The bright lights of Lynmouth's hostelries beckoned come Saturday evening and we were soon hurtling uncontrollably down the precipitous paths in search of sustenance. Not for us though the stodgy pasta mainstay of many an athlete on pre race night. We opted instead for pints 'n' steaks 'n' pints 'n' chips 'n' pints with potato skins putting in a late appearance. Fully feasted we left Rock House to resume our tour of the town's licensed premises. Lurking in one we came across a wise old sage (inebriate) who told of much merrymaking to be had in an ale house that stayed open until 1.00am. Shame not to 'pop' in we all slurred as it meant only a minor detour to our digs. Readjusting climbing equipment, back up the precipice we traipsed. The Globe was a lively place, packed to the authentic rafters with natives. Conversation flowed as did the vino. Some got far too absorbed in an extremely in depth and boring, I mean lengthy, discussion about running and training, only distracted from their discourse when there appeared on T.V. the poor '82 SAS flick - Who Dares Wins – starring Lewis Collins – and not Del Boy. An engrossing exchange on army training techniques then followed. Argh!
The rest of us ploughed on along the often surreal conversational route that one embarks upon once alcohol has rendered many brain cells dysfunctional. (Running around in a sheet anybody?) Returning from the bar one of our troupe, in a desperate bid for stardom or attention (as if the Don Johnson jacket wasn't enough already) attempted to juggle with full wine glasses. A smashing spectacle quite literally, and whilst failing to impress the locals, it made us laugh. When eventually we fell off the Globe and into the road (armed with free/purlained drinking glasses) an abandoned kiddies scooter across the road presented another opportunity to behave like ... well, kids. An opportunity too irresistible to pass up. Bring on the nocturnal acrobatic scootering. Although in the compulsories much energy and enthusiasm was expended whizzing up and down the street, the freestyle section sadly lacked skill, flair and imagination - but it's the taking part that counts, right? Shame there wasn't a skateboard around too.
Working up an appetite, pasty and chips were obtained from a chippie – amazingly
still open – which we consumed whilst wandering back to the B&B's. We returned as
dawn approached. Nice girl.
No details or evidence of the bizarre sleeping arrangements for that night exist
anywhere now, except on disc. Oh damn! I shouldn't have said that. I imagine
sleeping with Zippy and Bungle. Oh damn! shouldn't have said that either.
(Ply any of the participants with enough drink or money and you may glean more info)
The race didn't start until noon which allowed plenty of time to digest a full
English breakfast, although for one rather green looking athlete the sight of his
induced a strange sweaty trance followed by a hasty exit from the dining room.
A great deal of coffee and tea was downed before sluggishly setting off towards the start area. The run was most enjoyable – a very scenic affair taking in coast paths, wooded river valleys, moors etc - and we all made it to the finish ... eventually. If you want a great off road run it comes highly recommended. For a memorable weekend just bring sweets plus a weird entourage. Sadly it was time to scarper and make tracks back across the border - before the local gendarmeria could issue a.s.b.a.s. A technicolour yawn moment on the journey home seemed to be a fitting finale to the weekends exertions. Altitude sickness probably, being high up on the moors. That or it was caused by the overwhelming odour of manky trainers, or bad driving. Not alcohol obviously! (the company you keep obviously accounts for a great deal!) Just before going, and not a lot of people know this, way back in 1797 Samuel Coleridge (along with his buddy Wordsworth) walked 30 miles along the Bristol Channel coast to visit Lynton and Lynmouth. (Ultra poets eh!) It inspired him to pen the classic The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. I run 11.4 miles with my friends and am similarly inspired. This epic – my magnum hopeless – being the end result. Who mentioned dumbing down! P.S. The planned après – run dip in the sea was abandoned due to the tide having retreated beyond the horizon.
It is also worth pointing out that throughout the entire weekend not one pint of Heinnaman was ordered! And ... no aliens were purchased either. There would have been room for one on the back seat but Craig refused to go in the boot! N.B. All those featured in this report were unavailable for comment but have received counselling and are now getting better.