“Is that cow poo on your face?”
There’s nothing like the innocence of a child to let the emperor know he’s wearing no clothes. Or, in this case, a journalist coated in bovine waste matter. “Er…I thought it was mud?” I say feebly. Everyone laughs. Damn it. I thought I looked like Rambo.
I’ve run in races and I’ve walked long distances, but I’ve never done a challenge quite like Exmoor 30:30 – an increasingly popular event that falls somewhere in between. The challenge requires teams to cover 30 miles (48 km) over Exmoor, navigating between checkpoints while carrying 30lb of weight.
The concept is based on the military idea that good soldiers can cover significant distance with everything they could need on their backs. Most of us couldn’t carry as much as a trained SAS man for any significant distance, but 30 miles with 30lb is accessible while still testing. The weight isn’t back-breaking, but it will slow you down. It’s definitely a walking race, but it won’t make you look like those curious mincing types at the Olympics.
I meet my team-mates at the briefing in the village of Exford, the evening before the race. Looking around at the competition and judging from the grade-two haircuts and tattoos, some teams have military experience. But there’s also a mothers-and-sons team and since our name is The IT Crowd, I don’t need to ask if my new team-mates are fresh from Afghanistan. Indeed, they seem more into football than hill walking or adventure sports.
At the briefing, staggered start times are given out – ours is 04:25. Before I know it stupid o’clock is upon us and I’m leaving the hotel and following head-torches uphill towards the start. We have our packs weighed. To make up the weight Martin is carrying dumbbells while Mark, more usefully, is carrying beer. Authorised and full of bravado (and fizzy pop), we set off at a run down the hill.
We’re soon walking, though. It’s dark and misty as we head up a hedge-lined lane, passing another group who have stopped to check the map. We’re soon on moorland and there’s a brief concern when we see headtorches going in a different direction. But we stick to our plan and feel slightly smug when we quickly reach the first checkpoint.
It’s just about light when we reach the next checkpoint. Two other teams are already there – we go off in three different directions. The checkpoints have been on the event website for some time and the routes between them are up to us. Some of the team have done a dummy run and our intel is that although the road is a slightly longer route, it will be quicker underfoot than going over long grass and hungry bogs.
A pre-planned shortcut sees us climb steeply up the moor. As we see a team below debating whether we’re doing the right thing and if they should follow us, the excitement of the race starts to overcome me. After the scramble, I have mud on my hands – it’s definitely mud…probably – so in the spirit of fierce competition, I rub my face to give myself some war paint. I’m in the zone.
By the third checkpoint, we’ve covered around ten miles, tiredness is starting to show and there seems to be more distance between the teams – and even between the six of us in our team. Cramp and blisters have been mentioned. From the checkpoint we cut directly across the moors, with the dappled colours – red, orange, brown, green, yellow – seeping through the mist. We tumble into a deep trench and clamber breathlessly up the other side, then follow a ravine. The scenery is so beautiful I forget we’re trying to win a tough challenge event. But I’m about to get a reminder.
I’m in a group of four when we suddenly realise we can’t see the other two in our team – Danny, our captain, and Mark. We sit on our packs and wait. After two minutes they emerge from the mist behind us and we spot that Mark is carrying both packs. When they catch us we immediately split Danny’s 30lb among us, as the rules allow, but it’s not going to solve the bigger problem. “It’s no good lads,” says Danny dejectedly, “I’ll have to give up at the next checkpoint.” We try to talk him out of it, but it seems that a recent football injury has caught up with him.
At the fourth checkpoint, a lonely spot in the middle of the moor, we leave Danny. He’s gutted. Not least because the challenge has been the talk of his office and he’s in for some stick on Monday. What felt like a bit of fun starts to feel a bit more serious. That is, until the son of the event marshall points out that I look pretty silly with a pooey face (it’s mud) and everyone laughs at me. Has no-one seen First Blood?
There’s a sense of do-it-for-Danny determination now and seeing a team just in front makes us step up the pace. At the next checkpoint, at the top of a cruelly steep hill, we catch them. Not long after, we come to a fast-flowing river. Someone’s already had a dunking and mountain rescue are in attendance. We’re instructed to put our packs on one shoulder only, so if we fall our loads won’t drag us under the wet stuff. With my walking poles it isn’t too tricky and wet feet feel oddly refreshing.
The route to the next checkpoint is a killer. We know we have to get to the top of a monster hill and there’s an easier longer route by road. But time is of the essence and we decide to tackle it head-on. There’s no path, so we scramble, crawl and claw our way up through the heather. And up. And up. As I’m starting to get frustrated and annoyed, I spy some hardy Exmoor ponies. If they can live up here happily enough, I sure as hell can survive for one day without feeling sorry for myself. We surge on and, finally, the ground levels out and we reach the penultimate checkpoint.
It’s about 16:00 and we’ve covered around 25 miles. Sore feet and blisters are having an effect and there’s a long gap between the first and last team member to reach the checkpoint. The Army motto that a team is only as good as its slowest member is proving all too true. However, not once do any of my team-mates ask to go slower, beg for a rest or complain. The levels of determination are heroic, especially by those unused to hill walking and endurance events.
We’re unconcerned with our original time targets now and just want to finish the job, ideally without getting shown up by any more children. At the final checkpoint our bags are weighed, and it turns out mine is only 25lb! Rather than dumbbells, my pack was crammed with snacks and I’ve been too greedy. Luckily the collective weight is still ok – just. I feel mortified, though, like I’ve cheated my team-mates. I offer to carry more weight, but no-one will let me, even those who are struggling.
It’s just a few fields now, then down a hill and we’re back in long-daydreamed-of Exford. It has taken us 11 hours 47 minutes. After massages and showers, we meet at the pub and although there’s a slight disappointment with our time, there’s a glow of achievement on our faces as we compare embarrassing chafe marks – verbally, not visually. Later there’s a feast and prize-giving ceremony.
Who’s exactly behind Exmoor 30:30, a big fundraiser fro The Royal British Legion, is mysterious, although from the slick organisation I’m guessing some military input. Coming in four hours behind the fastest team, we don’t collect any silverware, although we weren’t the slowest and there’s talk of being fitter and faster next year – when hopefully the organisers will also have a prize for the best use of cow dung.