Well, it's been a while since I last ran through a blizzard. For once, the weather forecast had actually got it right. I stepped out of the door just after 4:30am for my usual morning run, having made the unusually sensible decision to trust the forecast and wear my waterproof running jacket despite the fact that the sky looked perfectly clear.
It didn't stay that way for long.
Ten minutes into the run, a few large flakes started drifting down.
Ten minutes later, it was full-on blizzard conditions.
Anyone who has ever tried running with a head torch during heavy snowfall will know it's a hopeless exercise. Instead of illuminating the path ahead, the beam simply reflects off every snowflake and creates the sensation that thousands of tiny white missiles are flying directly at your face.
Visibility became laughable. Still, as a self-appointed ultra-runner, I'm contractually obliged to pretend weather doesn't exist. So I cracked on.
The only real concern came when the snow began sticking to the pavements. My trusty Asics road shoes are many things, but capable in snowy conditions isn't one of them. They perform brilliantly on dry roads and have all the grip of a greased baking tray the moment things get slippery.
Mercifully, I survived with dignity mostly intact.
Anyway, onto the actual point of today's ramble.
Story 2
As I've mentioned before, I'm a member of a local homebrew club. Every now and again we organise brewery visits. Nothing overly formal. Usually a chance to look around the brewery, admire an unnecessary amount of shiny stainless steel, chat with the brewer and then thoroughly sample the finished product.
This particular trip involved a visit to one of my favourite breweries: Nothing Bound.
For those unfamiliar, Nothing Bound is run by one of the nicest and most passionate brewers you'll ever meet, producing genuinely exceptional beer from a collection of farm buildings that appear to have been strategically located in the middle of nowhere.
And I mean nowhere. Even the owner regularly acknowledges that getting there is something of a challenge. Yet somehow the place is always busy.
The Transport Problem
For me, a normal trip would have involved a deeply irritating combination of trains, connections and ultimately a taxi. Now, anyone who knows me will appreciate two things.
Firstly, I don't particularly like public transport.
Secondly, I detest taxis.
This particular Saturday was made even worse by yet another round of rail disruption and strikes. So I did what any reasonable person would do.
I decided to run there.
After all, I needed my Saturday long run anyway. The distance worked out at around twenty miles. The brewery would serve as the perfect finish line. Afterwards I could run part of the way back, grab a train and get picked up by my long-suffering wife.
Problem solved.
At least in theory.
Into the Wild
I plotted a mostly trail-based route on Garmin, packed some extra layers into my hydration vest, and set off. The route looked straightforward enough on the map.
Naturally it wasn't.
Crossing the River Severn proved the first challenge, given there are surprisingly few places to actually cross it. Beyond that, things went smoothly until I reached a more unfamiliar stretch of countryside. I knew the area reasonably well from years of cycling through it.
What I didn't know was the local network of footpaths. That turned out to be an issue.
One recurring feature of British trail running is the existence of public rights of way that, while technically legal to use, appear not to have been travelled since the reign of Queen Victoria.
The paths quickly deteriorated into an obstacle course of nettles, brambles and general hostility. My two greatest enemies.
Several routes became completely impassable, unless I'd happened to pack a machete alongside my energy gels.
Detours followed.
Lots of them.
I accumulated an additional three unexpected miles, one spectacular faceplant courtesy of an exposed tree root, and a selection of scratches on my legs after a farmer had apparently forgotten the generally accepted convention of leaving a path through his cornfield.
Cheers for that.
Arrival at Nothing Bound
Just before the four-hour mark, I finally arrived. The brewery sits on top of a rather steep hill, which feels significantly steeper after you've already run twenty-three miles. The rest of the group wasn't due for another hour, so I had the place largely to myself.
The barman looked at me with understandable suspicion. Half jokingly he asked if I'd actually run there. I explained that yes, I had.
Because obviously it's perfectly normal to arrive at a brewery dressed head-to-toe in running Lycra. He looked unconvinced.
I immediately ordered the weakest beer available. By "weakest", I mean 4.5%. And then absolutely demolished it. It was magnificent.
A few minutes later, the barman asked where I'd run from, clearly assuming I'd come from a nearby village.
When I told him, he paused for a moment. I'm not entirely sure he believed me. To be fair, most sane people don't run twenty-plus miles specifically to earn a pint.
Then again, sanity is overrated.
Fuel for the Next Stage
Recognising that beer on an empty stomach rarely ends well, I decided some food was required before the rest of the club arrived. The food truck of the day was serving pork cobs. Or teacakes, if you're from Yorkshire and insist on using the correct terminology.
This particular masterpiece involved pork, stuffing, crackling, apple sauce and a large helping of chips. The lady serving attempted to add gravy.
I declined.
There are standards.
The only acceptable reason for chips to become soggy is excessive vinegar.
The whole thing disappeared in about two minutes. Outstanding.
Beer, Beer and More Beer
The rest of the club arrived shortly afterwards and we settled into what we'd actually come for.
Beer.
Very good beer.
The afternoon passed in a blur of excellent NEIPAs, brewery chat and a tour led by the owner himself. Before long it was time to leave. Not because I wanted to. Because I had a train to catch. The last train at 4pm.
Thank you, British railways.
I loaded my route to the station and set off. Predictably, running after several strong beers and an enormous pork cob wasn't exactly peak athletic performance. Still, I only had around seven miles to cover.
Plenty of time, except Garmin had other ideas.
Once again, the route directed me towards a public right of way that terminated at a barbed-wire fence secured with a substantial padlock. Apparently Garmin felt that trespassing and mild electrocution was a viable navigation strategy.
I disagreed.
This left me relying on what I call "Force Navigation"—essentially heading vaguely in the right direction and hoping for the best. The trouble was I didn't have any spare time. Every wrong turn mattered.
In the end, I made it.
Just.
With seven minutes to spare before departure. The original seven-mile run had somehow become almost ten. Another three bonus miles.
A familiar theme.
When all was said and done, I'd run an ultra-marathon distance, visited one of my favourite breweries, spent an afternoon drinking excellent beer with fellow homebrewers and still made it home successfully.
Quite honestly, it remains one of the most satisfying days I've had. A perfect combination of running, beer, adventure and mild inconvenience. Exactly my sort of day.
As a tribute to the visit—and armed with several excellent brewing tips from the owner—I later brewed what was arguably the best beer I'd ever made. A heavily hopped NEIPA called The Path Untrodden.
Sadly, as documented elsewhere in this blog, it would eventually succumb to oxidation and end its days down the drain.
But for a brief glorious period, it was magnificent.
And the story behind it remains worth more than the beer itself.
Mind you, this isn't the only tale of running ridiculous distances for a pint. There are similar adventures involving Siren, Stirchley, 3 Words and several other breweries.
Perhaps they're stories for another day.
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