As I get ever closer to the end of my 5,000 mile challenge, I’ve been reflecting on things I got right, and things I got wrong.
I feel guilty that promised blog posts were drafted but never materialised on this page, as I was either never quite happy with them, or they felt hopelessly self-indulgent, or they were too miserable, or I never quite got around to it, so over the next few weeks I’m going to put that right, with a series of previously unpublished self indulgent, miserable, and not quite right posts, just to get a few things off my chest……however, before I do that, here’s one written by someone else!
Easily the most adventurous solo run I did over the whole five years was when I went to Sweden in September 2019 to run in the biggest cross country race in the world, the famous 30K “Lidingoloppet” – I’m incredibly lucky that my friend Matt, who has supported my 5,000 mile challenge from the early days and also happens to be a talented sports photographer, lives literally a few yards from the course, and so I went, stayed with him, and ran the race. He very kindly agreed to send me the story of this adventure from his point of view.
So thank you Matt, for kindly hosting me, and for writing about it too……
I tried to prepare Andy for the Lidingöloppet with some helpful comments. I remember coming up with ‘firm underfoot but unrelentingly hilly’ after considerable thought. It prompted a debate about whether the word hilly is appropriate when the highest point of the course is only 45m above sea-level. We agreed that ‘unrelentingly undulating’ is more accurate but I still think it is too much of a mouthful. Other information I provided which must have been invaluable for Andy’s preparation was a course profile (‘it looks like the Himalayas!’) and a list of food that is served, including saltgurka (salted cucumbers) and kanelbullar (Swedish cinnamon buns), both available to ward off any hunger pangs during the final 10km.
On rare but always wonderful occasions I’ve had the chance to host old friends here on Lidingö, in Sweden (pronounced a bit like leading-err not lid-ingo), a medium sized island in the archipelago on the outskirts of Stockholm. Once it was a family who were on a driving tour of Scandinavia (or as we say here Nordic), who were thrilled to drive across ‘The Bridge’; another time it was two friends who didn’t know each other, who I invited here to see The Cure in concert. The most recent occasion was when Andy Wright took the brave step, or actually very many brave steps, in running the Lidingöloppet.
The Lidingöloppet is a mass participation cross-country race which is run predominantly on forest tracks throughout the island. It bills itself as the largest cross-country race in the world with about 40,000 participants. The flagship event is a 30km but there are shorter distances including races for the very young and very old. The finish line is about 300m from my house, so for one weekend every year, my sleepy neighbourhood is transformed into the site of a huge sporting event.
That Andy should run the loppet was completely obvious to me, and I was not at all surprised when he agreed. He has been running 1,000 miles a year for several years and I live on the biggest cross-country course in the world. However as the date got closer I started to appreciate that this would be a big thing – Andy was giving up a weekend to fly to Stockholm, he was ready to try 30km cross-country when he normally runs on the road, the loppet is a peculiarly Swedish extreme-sport thing which he might not get or appreciate at all, and who knew what language or other cultural barriers would present themselves during the experience.
On Friday lunchtime, I met Andy at Arrivals. It is a wonderful thing that even when you have neglected old friends, spoken to them way too occasionally over several decades, that it doesn’t matter. Andy looked exactly the same as I when we last met, at his fiftieth birthday, and we picked up where we had left off. As we drove home, we had a chance to catch up, and I mentioned to him that we had other houseguests who were racing, Helen my sister-in-law (30km) and Jim my father-in-law (10km, 70-80 age class).
I am not a runner, but during the rest of the afternoon, I imagine we did the sort of things that runners would do. We picked up Andy’s number. We scouted the course, which involved a stroll to the finish and a walk up Grönstabacken, one of the steeper hills (undulating sections?), at 20km. The final 10km is a loop so the 20km milestone is close to the finish. In the evening I cooked lots of pasta and did a final check of my camera equipment.
Race day was dull and overcast, and the rain soon started. The 10km was first, starting and finishing close to home. Jim was round in under 64 minutes, an excellent time, one of many good times he has achieved during the thirteen years we have lived here. He plans to return in a few years to compete in the 80+ class.
Then we had a little too long to wait for the 30km start, which was only due at 12.30 with groups spaced every ten minutes. I had never been to the start on a race day, and misjudged the amount of time needed, which meant our walk there had to be rather more brisk than planned. I was out of breath by the time we got there, and very glad to be watching not running.
The course is very kind for a photographer in that from the start you can walk to 7km, then to 20km and then to the end, while the runners go on a much longer route and so it is possible to see the same runners four times. It reminds me of the London marathon, if you start from Greenwich Park then go to the Cutty Sark, and then walk through the foot tunnel to the Isle of Dogs. 
One of my enduring memories of the afternoon was the rain, which seemed to get heavier and heavier. Imagine, Andy and Helen had come all this way, only to have to run in the rain! Also, I was a bit worried about how my camera would cope. I am an indoor sports photographer and I had never spent so long with my camera in the rain. I had a new lens, only a few months old, which in theory was weather sealed, but it was raining hard, so I kept it sheltered as much as I could and vowed to be better prepared next time. I remember having found a perfect viewpoint, one I know from previous years, looking across rather enviously at a pro. He was on the other side of the course, on a small fold-out chair next to a small tree to which he had clamped an umbrella. He was so organized, comfortable and dry, and it almost looked as if he had even brought the tree along.
I couldn’t pick either Andy or Helen out from the crowds at the start, but I got good pictures at 7km – a smiling Andy with arms outstretched reminding me of the Int Milk Brilliant guy (I’m not sure I can explain why), and Helen looking more serious and focused. There was lots of concentration on the uphill stretch at 20km – a good grimace from Andy and then he saw me and paused. “I don’t think I can make it” he said with a smile, and then clarified “oh I’ll get round, but not in the time I wanted”.
At the end, Andy was smiling again as he came around the last corner into the finishing straight. In the photos he looks very happy, not tired, and oblivious to the pouring rain.
Family tradition is that every year the Saturday race is followed by curry and red wine and this year was no exception. I’d had a chance to edit some photos so we could relive the day and do the obligatory social media posts. Later in the evening as the wine flowed there was some live music courtesy of my wife Alison and her sister.
The morning afterwards, life returned to normal remarkably quickly. Andy headed off to the airport as I was leaving to photograph a handball game. We laughed as we were both wearing our respective sports ‘uniform’ – him with his 5000 mile challenge branding, mine with the logo of the local handball club.
Soon afterwards Andy emailed, including a comment that he recognised he had done something extraordinary over the weekend, and that we should do extraordinary things more often. Amen to that……………..
thanks Matt – I echo the last comment totally; at 20K I was disappointed that I was exhausted and clearly not going to get close to the time I was hoping for, but for once I managed to get over this and just enjoy the experience – my prediction of around 2 hours 40 was uncharacteristically naive and based on my road race performances – the staggered start meant I set off in a wave of runners who were running my predicted pace, so I got carried along too fast in the first 10k and suffered for it later……but for once, that really wasn’t important.
The Kirkwood 5000 - 5000 miles in 5 years 