Another Saturday, another storm.
This time it was Storm Darragh, and unlike its predecessor from a couple of weeks earlier, this one meant business. The West Coast was under Red Warnings, whilst my part of the world was "only" blessed with an Amber Warning. Apparently, meteorologists consider sustained winds of 40mph with gusts north of 60mph to be merely moderately concerning.
Naturally, I wasn't going to let a bit of weather interfere with my Saturday long run.
I plotted my route on Garmin, gave it the suitably dramatic name of "Storm Saturday", and prepared for a twenty-mile road run. The trails were out of the question after the biblical amounts of rain we'd received all week.
I knew it would be windy. I knew it would be wet. What I hadn't fully appreciated was just how cold it was going to feel.
Running Into Winter
The storm was dragging in air from the north-west and with it came a proper dose of Arctic misery. According to my weather app, the temperature may not have looked too frightening on paper, but the "feels like" reading sat stubbornly at around -6°C.
No matter.
I layered up as best I could. Short-sleeved base layer, long-sleeved running top and my trusty Montane waterproof jacket, a piece of kit that has seen me through more than a few questionable decisions over the years.
With a fresh episode of The Hop Addition downloaded and ready—featuring an interview with Braybrooke, producers of what many consider Britain's finest proper lagered beers—I was actually looking forward to getting out.
Perhaps not excited.
But close enough.
The Calm Before the Misery
The opening miles were surprisingly pleasant. Well, as pleasant as running through the remnants of a storm can be. The rain was manageable, the winds hadn't fully arrived and I settled into the sort of rhythm that makes a twenty-miler feel almost reasonable.
For roughly the first ten miles, everything was under control. Then Storm Darragh remembered I was there. The rain intensified first. Not drizzle. Not even normal rain. The sort of rain that feels like it's being fired horizontally from a pressure washer.
Then the wind found another gear entirely.
When the Cold Gets Serious
Before long, I was soaked through. My leggings were saturated. My gloves were useless. My feet had long since surrendered any hope of staying dry.
The worst part, however, was the cold.
I could feel the freezing wind driving through my jacket and gradually stealing whatever warmth I'd managed to generate during the run.
Now, I should point out that I am not particularly good with the cold.
Years of running have left me fairly lean and, thanks to Raynaud's Syndrome, my hands in particular have an unfortunate tendency to stop functioning when temperatures drop.
In fact, Raynaud's is one of the key reasons I eventually drifted away from cycling. Winter rides often became less about fitness and more about trying to retain sensation in my fingers.
It wasn't long before I found myself genuinely struggling.
Running into a 40mph headwind is exhausting at the best of times. Combine that with freezing temperatures and torrential rain and the whole thing becomes less of a run and more of an exercise in stubbornness.
I was getting dangerously close to making the dreaded phone call.
The emergency wife extraction.
The Closest I've Come to Quitting
To be honest, it was probably the nearest I've come to abandoning a run in recent memory. The only thing that stopped me was the realisation that standing around waiting for rescue would almost certainly make things worse.
If I stopped moving, I'd get colder. Much colder. So I compromised. Rather than completing the planned route, I cut directly for home, shaving around two miles off the total.
Normally I'd obsess over losing those miles. On this occasion I couldn't have cared less. Survival trumped statistics.
The Agony of Warming Up
Eventually I staggered through the front door. I have never wanted a shower more. The trouble was actually getting into it.
Anyone who has tried removing soaked Lycra with hands that can barely function will understand the challenge. Everything sticks. Everything clings. Everything feels impossible. Eventually I managed it. Then came the shower.
If you've never been genuinely cold to your core and suddenly stepped into hot water, let me tell you something:
It hurts.
A lot.
The return of feeling to frozen fingers is not an experience I'd particularly recommend. By the time I finally warmed up, I could safely conclude one thing. I genuinely did not enjoy that run. A rare statement indeed.
Beer O’clock Medicine
Fortunately, relief was already scheduled.
Saturday Beer O’clock arrived right on cue and, unsurprisingly, my beer choices leaned heavily towards comfort and reward.
The line-up consisted of:
- Thornbridge APA
- Two Flints Nelson & Riwaka NZ IPA (a brewery neither my mate nor I had explored before)
- Thornbridge Helles
- A wonderfully ridiculous 11.5% Dutch Chocolate Fudge Pastry Stout
The Two Flints IPA was particularly impressive, packed with all the tropical fruit and white grape character you'd hope for from Nelson Sauvin and Riwaka.
The imperial stout then finished the evening in gloriously decadent fashion. Despite the eye-watering strength, it somehow avoided becoming cloying or overly sweet.
Exactly what was required after battling Storm Darragh for the morning.
Looking Ahead
With any luck, next Saturday's weather will be a little more forgiving. I'm not asking for sunshine. I'm not even asking for warmth. Just something that doesn't actively try to blow me into the nearest hedgerow would suffice. Especially as I'm planning a rather long run.
And if recent evidence is anything to go by, it'll probably end with a beer somewhere
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