One of the first things that I very quickly realized about the Exmoor 30:30 was the sense of comradeship that underpinned the entire event. Standing in the village hall at 3:20am after spending a comfortless night in a tent was not the most comfortable experience of my life. But there was an underlying feeling of instantaneous friendship with every single person there, even those who you had never met before, culminating in the round of applause each group received as they were sent out into the cold October night.
The second thing that hit me was that this race was not to be taken lightly. I remember a certain amount of sympathy being felt for our peers taking on the 30 mile trek, who set off half an hour earlier. But as we were cheered on by the Exford night-life, staggering out of the local pub in the small hours of the morning, any residual sympathy had disappeared. The hill leading out of Exford had turned the cold chill of the night into a hot, sweaty march and as we staggered to the top of the hill, desperate to keep our fast-paced march from slowing down, there was a communal shedding of layers and consumption of fluids.
However, as we acclimatised to the challenge, the problems became less physical and more intellectual. I particularly remember wandering blindly across a pitch black hill with nothing but a slight uphill gradient to mark our path. In an attempt not to stray from the unmarked footpath, we lost valuable time stopping every five minutes for a quick map check. Yet we quickly reached the farm at the end of the path to find our previous troubles had returned. Never have contour lines induced such fear as the hill on which Checkpoint 2 found itself. The particularly unflattering snapshots captured by the event photographer at the top sum up how we felt, both on the inside and outside.
From then on, our journey became less complicated. Following small roads, rivers and bridleways through sleepy country villages, we reached the halfway point with relative ease. As dawn broke, the morning light made our navigation a lot easier. But by this point, the 30lbs we had lugged across the moor was starting to take its toll, just in time for the river crossing. I must say that I was one of the lucky ones whose knees were wet, but nothing else. As we faced down the next hill, the spirits of some group members were considerably lower than they had been before we had tackled the river. Nonetheless, the largest hill yet loomed overhead and each of us was no less determined to beat it.
If the hill at Checkpoint 2 was a sprint, then the hill at Checkpoint 4 was definitely a marathon. A kilometre through steep moorland with no footpath, heather up to the knee and uneven, sinking patches of mud met us as we climbed. Top that off with biting winds to complement our wet clothes and the result was nothing short of miserable. Yet, when we reached the top, we were more determined than ever to carry on, if not for the sake of the race, than to sit down and get warm again. Once we reached the road again, we even ran part of the gentle decline into the final village before the finish line, fuelled by black coffee and jelly babies. Yet the race had one more card up its sleeve, in the form of another hill.
Whilst this one was tarmacked and not as vicious as the ones we had climbed earlier, the previous 25km had worn us down and this incline in particular felt steeper than ever. At several points I found my thighs going numb from want of oxygen, so I sort of floated up in an indistinguishable yet utterly real pain. However, much to the village residents’ displeasure, a somewhat alternative round of Queen’s ‘Don’t stop me now’ propelled us to the final checkpoint.
The final few kilometres were (mercifully) on good terrain and downhill. As we emerged over the crest of the hill, we saw Exford in the valley below and a feeling of relief flooded group conversation. Making our way over the bridge into Exford and seeing the finish line brought up feelings of sheer joy, but also faint sadness that such a memorable event was over. Looking at what we’d overcome as a team in the last 6 hours as we removed wet shoes and socks to discover what was left of our feet, we almost instantaneously decided to return next year and take on the 30 mile race. Cheering other teams across the finish line with a piece of the best chocolate cake I’d had in years, was an experience I won’t forget in a long time. The only thing that made our efforts seem more valuable was the knowledge that it was all in support of such an important cause. To anyone considering doing something challenging, memorable and charitable, I cannot recommend it enough. Thank you Royal British Legion and thank you Exmoor.