ADVENTURING
(NOT RACING)
—
Traversing the length of Wales in The Dragon’s Back Race is epic. It inspires a real feeling of adventure and, for Katie Mills, this was the biggest high.
Words: Katie Mills
Photographs: No Limits Photography
Usually, after a race, after a big training block and the excitement of an event, I feel a lack of purpose; a bit lost. The post-race blues. That didn’t happen after The Dragon’s Back.
Occasionally a passing walker would ask, “where are you running to?” “To Cardiff,” I’d answer. Most would look at me quite oddly. “This girl’s crazy”, their expression would say. But there’s something remarkable about starting on the north coast of a country and traversing, on foot, to the south coast. I’m competitive against myself and enjoy pushing myself and my limits, but I don’t love racing. I actively avoid comparing my performance with others, especially women. It doesn’t thrill me to crush other women in races. Plus, it would have been ridiculous to try to race an event that was over double the distance I’d ever run before in a single week. My goal coming into the event was to finish, and finish having had as much fun as possible!
In camp I avoided looking at the results screen to see my overall position and, yes, lead against the women’s field. During the daily interviews I tried not to talk about the Dragon’s Back as a race. We were all out for an extended jog in the most beautiful place. Removing the racing component created a stronger bond between the runners; we were in it together. Every time I felt cross at my sore feet, tired or down in the dumps, I’d think, “Wait a second. We’re all so fucking lucky to be taking part in this!”
I remember on the final day, about 14 miles to go, we came to the crest of a hill and the south coast of Wales was laid out below. The bay of Cardiff sparkled in the sunshine. I was euphoric and exhausted in equal measure. The end of the adventure was in sight. It was an overwhelming sensation. Usually, after a race, after a big training block and the excitement of an event, I feel a lack of purpose; a bit lost. The post-race blues. That didn’t happen after the Dragon’s Back. It could be because there’s not enough time to take in what’s happening during the event. I was so focused on being positive, ignoring everything shitty and preparing for the next day that there was no time to reflect over the six days of the race. Three weeks later and I’m still remembering small details, feeling the raw emotions, reliving the adventure. I’m still riding the high. But remembering the lows.
30 minutes in and I was bashing my way up Cnicht, feet soaked from early morning dew and hidden bogs. They stayed wet for the remaining 10 hours and 49 minutes it took me to get to the overnight cam
“Take care of your feet,” they say. A golden rule of ultrarunning and especially relevant at this race. Your feet are wet 90% of the time, and there’s no room to pack a dry pair of shoes for each day. I practised taping my feet while back at home in Canada, reading the race emails and watching the race videos for tips, knowing how important it would be. The taping worked amazingly well on mostly dry trails. In Wales, within five minutes I was running through a bog, feeling the tape unstick from my feet and float around my sock. So naturally I figured, screw the tape I’ll lube my feet and be fine…
Dealing with my feet ended up becoming my biggest challenge. My deepest low. There’s so much off-trail navigating in this race, particularly on day 2. 30 minutes in and I was bashing my way up Cnicht, feet soaked from early morning dew and hidden bogs. They stayed wet for the remaining 10 hours and 49 minutes it took me to get to the overnight camp. I stopped every couple of hours and coated my socks in GurneyGoo, which lasted until the next bog or stream (not long!). My feet took a real beating and on the final descent off Diffwys I felt two or three blisters burst. A sharp pain that was almost crippling for a minute or two, then thankfully eased.
I didn’t hold back on the descents. They were steep and technical, my favourite! But my feet became so macerated when I uncovered them in camp they weren’t recognisable. Were these really mine? It’s fine, they’ll dry out and it won’t be as boggy tomorrow… And it wasn’t. But much of the path was off-camber, squashing my feet to one side of my shoes. The burning on the balls of my feet that I started to notice at the end of day 1 was super-intense now. Every step became ridiculously painful and each time I thought about where the best spot to land was. I thought about how many steps there were to Cardiff, and came to the conclusion that there was a shit load.
Walking through camp I thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t in a mixed gender tent. I could smell the boys’ tents a mile away! Our tent scent was fairly fragrant by comparison.
I admitted defeat at the end of day 3 and hobbled into the medical tent. Ellen and Nicki are the absolute best. They drained my blisters, including a massive new one on the ball of my foot, and told me to come back in the morning for a lesson in taping. It turns out that, under Welsh conditions, when it comes to taping more is definitely more. I’d been sticking a piece here, a piece there. Useless. Nicki taped my toes individually then wrapped my whole foot. The difference was night and day! With the medical team’s help my blisters didn’t get any worse. I just dealt with them for the next three days. On the final day my feet were starting to become infected from bog in the blisters. Tears leaked from my eyes as I left camp - only 40 miles to go. I avoided pointy rocks, of which there were many, and mainly held it together until I saw my dad at the support point and my whole family at the finish line. I was ready to call it quits at the end of day 3. The event medical team, their care and their taping got me to the finish line.
My previous camping experiences had exclusively been at festivals or in my comfortable Jeep, decked out with full foam mattress and duvet. To say I was apprehensive about spending five nights in soggy Welsh fields is an understatement. But the lovely ladies I was fortunate enough to share a tent with ended up being such a source of fun camaraderie that the overnight camps became a highIight of each day. A month prior I’d taken a very expensive trip to Cotswold Outdoors. My sister and I headed to Snowdonia where I would recce part of the course and she would explore on her bike. In the evenings she’d sleep in her converted van and I planned to practise camping with all my new kit. Unfortunately the weather was non-stop rain. My initial excitement at the novelty of it all wore off around 2am when I awoke to a small river running through my tent. I swiftly exited, admitted defeat and joined my sister in her lovely dry van.
Thankfully the tents provided at the event were somewhat more waterproof. After some efficient Facebook stalking back in June, Stevie, Rachel, Sam, Kate, Kezia, Sophie and I had created a Tent 2 group on WhatsApp. Our preevent jovial texts transformed into deeply supportive conversations in person. Tent 2 had each others’ backs; we were a team. On a few occasions, a couple of the ladies had missed a cut-off and were already back in camp when I arrived. They’d whisk my bowl from my hand and deliver my dinner from the food tent. “What else can we help you with?” they’d ask. At the end of the particularly tough day 5, my body too exhausted to keep itself warm, I’d crept into my sleeping bag wearing all my dry layers. I lay there, shivering uncontrollably for an hour or so until Sam arrived back. She energised me. I was able to get moving, have a conversation and get to the food tent for some hot soup.
Walking through camp I thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t in a mixed gender tent. I could smell the boys’ tents a mile away! Our tent scent was fairly fragrant by comparison: a subtle yet poignant hint of Welsh bog, an underlying note of salty running pack, with a resonant tang of Deep Heat. Only two of us finished out of the seven starters in Tent 2. But being timed out at cut-offs didn’t mean their experience was over. They continued as noncompetitive participants. Every morning, alarms would go off at 4am, they’d grab breakfast, running packs and would queue for the earliest start time of 6am. If they made the cut-offs, they’d be back in camp between 9 and 10pm, sometimes not till 1am. After not making it on day 1, Rachel was gutted her kids would think she was a failure. But rather than a failure, I found her dedication and commitment to keep showing up every day to be as inspiring as fuck.
It feels weird to write about solitude when taking part in an event with over 400 starters. I disconnected myself from real life at The Dragon’s Back.
It’s unlikely you’ll read a report about this year’s event without mentioning the heat of the first two days. It was all anyone in camp could talk about. Its impact was obvious, with the number of people dropping out of the race in these first two days, as well as the lowest ever finisher rate of 24%. I remember in the afternoon of Day 2, climbing up the Roman Steps in the Rhinogydd, an assembly line of defeated runners heading back to the support point. I was asked how I handled the heat in the first 2 days. I suck in the heat, it was a huge low for me. Any tactics were pretty unconscious, and generally revolve around focusing on cold things, walking a lot, and distracting myself by chatting.
For most of Day 1 I was visualising the hell out of the promised cold river at the overnight camp. On Crib Goch, the heat was intense. Hot sun blazed down on hot rock, reflecting onto my already hot face. I’d been nervous during my only other time up here, huddled over in a death grip. Today my heat-exhausted brain could only think two things - “fuck it’s hot”, and, “get me to the river”, leaving no room for fear. The byproduct of this was that Crib Goch passed in minutes; it was really rather efficient!
I’d recced the whole of Day 2, the only day I had run in its entirety. The huge benefit of this was that I knew the location of every stream or other body of water on the route. I focused on moving from stream to stream, cold dip to cold dip. It became easier to break down the day and ignore the heat. The best stream of the day had about 10 other runners submerged in it. I squeezed in and flicked a floating slug out of the way. It was perfection.
It was impossible for me to push the effort in the heat and so walking was the order of the day. Walking felt great! I wiped the sweat from my eyes and exuberantly swung my poles around. Walking meant I could have some great chats on the uphills. Will, an army guy taking part in the event with a few other soldiers, accompanied me up Tryfan and Glyder Fach. We talked about his regiment and his training to get here. One of his friends had never run an ultra before and chose DBR as his first. 10/10 for enthusiasm there! On the Roman Steps up to Rhinog Fawr I fell into step with Pieter from Belgium. We chatted about where I live in North Vancouver, he said he’s seen YouTube videos of the mountains in BC and he’d love to visit. Up the next mountain I talk to Tim. He’s amazed I ran down the last scree slope. Encouragingly he shouted out, when we were halfway up the next climb, saying, “We’re doing so well!”.
But for all those chats, there was a lot of time on my own. It feels weird to write about solitude when taking part in an event with over 400 starters. I disconnected myself from real life at the Dragon’s Back. I needed to keep a handle on my emotions and stay in the moment. There was no phone signal at most of the overnight camps, and I chose not to turn my phone on during the days. Life was simplified. No distractions. Eat, jog, sleep, repeat.