Arc of Attrition 50 Mile Winter Endurance Run – Race Report

“The coast path is single track from here to Land’s End so if you’re one of the faster runners you want to get yourself to the front now… not you, Will Penrose!” announced Andrew Ferguson (Cornwall’s answer to Lazarus Lake – race director and all round sadist), over the bloody microphone.

That’s the confidence boost everyone needs seconds before their first attempt at running 50 miles. Not just any 50 miles either, some of the most brutal, churned up, soul destroying miles imaginable. Mudcrew’s now legendary Arc of Attrition has become known, quite rightly so, as one of the toughest races in the UK. For some perspective, the DNF rate of the 100 mile race is roughly 50% and you have to qualify for the race in the first place so it’s not pretenders with no business being there getting chewed up and spat out on the rocks, it’s seasoned ultra runners.

The Arc, as it’s affectionately known in Cornwall, was the first Ultra Marathon I heard of, long before I started running. My brother had shown some interest after completing an ironman and my reaction at the time was that of the classic non-runner, “All in one go? Surely you’d have to sleep somewhere on the course? I bet people actually die doing that!” Well it turns out people don’t actually die, they don’t sleep and they definitely do it all in one go, although many take years of failed attempts to do so. Some of the fastest runners do it in under 24 hours, earning themselves the coveted ‘black buckle’. Sections of the course from Coverack to Porthtowan have gained infamy over the 5 years the race has taken place. Runners shudder at the words Pendeen Watch, Zennor and the Dunes of Doom.

It’s a long road to get to the start line of the AoA. First you have to have completed an ultra worthy of qualification and this is where my foray into ultra running began.

Way back in the annals of time when Brexit was a new word and Boris Johnson was just a silly twat riding a bicycle around London I googled, ‘How to qualify for the AoA’. This is when I saw that Mudcrew were putting on a new race, ‘The Arc 50’ which if completed would earn you ring fenced entry into the full 100 mile Arc. Perfect… or so I thought until I reached my first stumbling block – qualifying for the 50 mile race. All of these hoops should have given me an idea of how difficult this race was going to be. So, to qualify for the Arc 50 you need to have completed at least a 50km race. This is all very sensible. If Ferg allowed anyone to turn up and run the Arc, the DNF rate would likely be close to 100%.

After some more googling, the ball was rolling. I entered another Mudcrew race, ‘The Black RAT 50km,’ and started training. I earned my place in the Arc 50 but would have to wait until 2020 to take it on. I worked as a valet on the Arc in 2019 and got a flavour for it, so I knew what I was letting myself in for and promptly entered the 50 as soon as registration opened for the following year.

12 months of racing and training passed and thank goodness it did. I think if I’d attempted those 50 miles when I’d first wanted to, I’d undoubtedly have crumbled at St Ives and gone home with my tail between my legs. So now it’s Saturday the 1st of February and I’m standing in a crowd of nervous energy being mocked by the race director.

“3, 2, 1, GO!”

We scramble up the steps of Rowena Cade’s iconic Minack Theatre, carved into the rocks at Porthcurno, with the sun now shining and the waves smashing into the cliffs below. Marshalls hold flares that pour blue smoke into our faces. It’s a scene of panic and… choking, not dissimilar from news reports of riots in Hong Kong. Through the smoke and we’re moving, jostling for position through the carpark and out onto the coast path.

The first mile passes in what feels like seconds with nobody saying a word. 100% focus is required on some technical terrain right from the gun. The race leader, Jamie Stephenson, manages to put 100 yards between himself and the chase pack in no time at all and by the time we’re round the first headland he’s gone. I’m sitting comfortably in the chase pack, sticking to the plan of going out easy and hoping to finish strong rather than broken. Some people pass, then drop back and after five miles, we’ve spread out into small groups. Now guards can be dropped a little and we start talking. It looks as though we might be with each other for some time so we may as well get to know each other. Fortunately for me, in this pack is my friend Dan and we soon form an unspoken agreement to run the entire race together.

As we reach Land’s End we run straight through the weekly parkrun. Dan being a gentlemen shouts words of encouragement to every single runner we pass. I save my energy. The next section is really runnable, all the way through Sennen, Gwynver, Cape Cornwall and onto Pendeen. It’s just before Pendeen that I realise the person I’m running with, other than Dan, is last year’s winner – Neil Martin. I decide to quietly back off the pace and let him go. Dan kept up the chase, but I knew all too well what was coming… the Morvah bogs and boulders of Zennor.

Everyone hates that section of the race. You can’t get a rhythm going. It’s up and down, ridiculously wet underfoot and relentless all the way to St Ives. If you don’t know it, you can hit a real mental low in there. You feel like you’ve stopped and no matter how hard you’ve trained you’re limited to 8 minute kilometres at points. Sure enough the bogs of Morvah take their toll on one of the race favourites – winner of the Cotswold 100, who drops shortly after I pass him somewhere in the thick of it.

I catch up with Dan just before the Gurnard’s head and we run like a peloton for the duration, taking turns to pull from the front while the other plugs along behind. It’s incredible how having someone to chat to can turn a real suffer fest into an extended comedy sketch. I felt like a chuckle brother as we navigated our way over and around boulders trying not to slip over or collide with one another for miles of mud and wet rock.

Just get to St Ives. Surely that’s what everyone is thinking? The race is split in two by a checkpoint in the town offering all sorts of fruit, drinks, massages and encouragement from a team of incredible volunteers. If you’ve heard of the Arc then you’ve probably heard of the Arc Angels. The team of people that pitch in to help every year are something else. Each individual is there for the love of the sport, the community and to be part of something more than just running.

I, however, have my own crew in the form of my dad waiting for me with a change of shoes and socks in Porthmeor Carpark. This is a godsend and if you can do it, you must. I have run 29 miles in Hoka Evo Jawz by this point. This minimal shoe, with incredible grip has served me well but the hours of pounding them into the rocks have battered my feet into submission and I need something with a bit of cushion to get me through the unavoidable tarmac between St Ives and the Dunes of Doom. My dad is there like a bloody F1 pitstop, helping untie my laces and sending me on my way. What a hero.

I find Dan inside the Guildhall checkpoint atop a massage table being roughed up by Kate Skipper, infamous torturer of legs. We don’t waste too much time and head back out through the town and onward to Carbis Bay. I’ve got a spring in my step from the fresh footwear and Dan’s had his legs put back where they should be. Things are looking up. I’m also thrilled to be getting close to the dunes as it’s where I train with my crew every Tuesday.

After St Ives we start passing some of the 100 milers who by this point have been ‘out there’ for 25+ hours, and their faces show it. Each time we exchange words of encouragement while trying not to look too fresh as we run past. It must be pretty tough if you know you’re walking it in with 21 miles left to go and 150 runners are going to spring past you. It’s then that Dan and I agree that 100 miles is just outrageous and we’ll never do it. I wonder who will be the first to make a u-turn on that.

The road section seems to go on forever and the fresh footwear feeling wears off incredibly quickly. Finally, we reach the dunes and run the whole section to Godrevy at a good pace. The ground is easy on tired legs and I actually know where I’m going for once. Life is good.

Too good it seems. Just as we stop with our crew chiefs in Godrevy carpark for a watering, a runner passes us. We had been so confident that we had at least a mile between us but the tracker must have had a lag. No time to lose we take up the chase and by the time we reach Hell’s Mouth we’re back in front and pulling away. We drop the hammer for a couple of miles. No talking, just running until there’s nothing but empty coastline in the rear view.

At this point we’re in 5th and 6th, or joint 5th we had decided. It was clear that we were going to finish together so we now referred to our position as if we were one person. We get complacent again and we’re caught by our friend from Godrevy just before dropping down into Portreath. It is the dropping down that’s the problem. Dan’s knees start to give him trouble on the downhills as both his IT bands stop working. He’s in agony, although he masks it well and we carry on with our chuckle brother routine.

It’s only about 3 or 4 miles from Portreath to the finish but that has to be some of the hardest running in the whole race. The descents are cruel on battered quads and the climbs consist of eroding steps made for actual giants. Just before we get to Porthtowan, about 1 mile from the finish, another runner comes past us. He must have been hunting our tail lights up and down Sally’s Bottom. Surely that’s it? Joint 7th is still ok, especially when your knees are barely even knees anymore. As we hit the streets of Porthtowan for the final half mile, Dan’s family surprise him and it’s all just a big old love in under the glow of the street lights. We’re not done yet though. There’s still an absolute monster of a hill to climb before we can stop moving our battered legs. Now, after 50 miles and 2.4kms of vertical gain, Dan tells me to push because someone is coming up behind us. No bloody way is someone coming past now, not in the last few hundred metres. We march up the steep track, past glow sticks and little yellow flags. It flattens out and we run like we haven’t been able to in hours, through blue inflatable arches to our families and the finish. 10 hours and 31 minutes of aerobic jogging, quad destroying descents, soul destroying bogs, mind bending climbs and life affirming friendships later, we stop running.

It took two years of training and racing and qualifying to realise, I probably don’t want to run 100 miles, not yet anyway. Sometimes the journey to what you think you want, is all you actually need.

20 minutes later as we lie face down, side by side on massage tables, Dan and I start planning a track session on Perranporth beach, while wincing in pain from the fists in our calves. Running is weird.