Mark Lloyd: Running with salmon — couch to 75k

Every couple of years, I like to take on a challenge to raise funds for The Rivers Trust, to promote the work of the Rivers Trust movement and highlight the many threats facing our rivers. Earlier this year, I heard about the Tidelines Salmon Run, which is a 43-mile ultra marathon from sea to near the source of the River Exe in Devon to celebrate the Atlantic salmon and their perilous journey from the Arctic Ocean back to the same river in which they had hatched out of a tiny egg four or five years earlier.

I had envisaged walking the route over 2 days but realised that this wouldn’t attract much sponsorship or attention. Despite never having run further than 10 miles, and that being when I was about 16, I agreed to sign up for the ultra-marathon, driven by a mix of professional duty, over-enthusiasm and not really thinking through what would be involved. After some long hikes in Norway over the summer holidays, I started training in earnest in late August, initially with 5 mile runs, which then extended to a peak of 24 miles two weeks before the event, after which I did shorter runs to avoid any injury.

So, it was with a great deal of trepidation that I found myself shivering on a windswept beach at 8am on the 20th of September with a 43-mile route ahead, uphill. My elder brother Richard, a veteran marathon and Iron Man participant, had decided to join me, along with Graeme Thomas, an Olympic rower and a great supporter of The Rivers Trust, who is 20 years younger than me. 35 other participants with steel quadriceps sprang about on the sand with daunting vigour. A man in fishnet tights dressed as a salmon read us a wonderful poem with great hutzpah and then blew into a conch. Off we went, at a cautious trot, with the keenest runners disappearing into the distance. We never saw them again. Richard, Graeme and I plodded along the promenades and concrete flood defences of the lower Exe at the back of the shoal, enduring the sections along main roads with impatient drivers before we got into some wonderful countryside and our feet could get a rest from the tarmac.

About 20 miles in, the pain started. Feet, knees and hips took it in turns to shout ‘STOP’ via nerve impulses to the brain. At one point, continuing for another 25 miles seemed completely unthinkable, but we egged each other on and the cheers of The Rivers Trust comms team at the rest stops every 10 miles or so gave us a boost. We spent much of the remaining time calculating whether we would make it to the finishing line before 8pm, which was the cut-off for receiving a medal and ordering food in the pub in Dulverton.

Our run slowed to a walk as we hit the hill climbs, and we were battered with heavy rain and wind for a while. We did some awkward, painful jogs on the downhill sections and then in the last 5 miles our pace quickened, spurred on by the thought of Exmoor Ale and the knowledge that we wouldn’t have to run any further. We got to the finishing line a few minutes before 8pm wearing head torches, received our medals with glee from the patient organisers and headed for the warm pub.