Welsh 3000s: Part 1 - A Beautiful Beast
A running challenge that encapsulates type-2 fun. It kicks your arse every time, and then has you coming back for more, tail between your legs, like the most dysfunctional of relationships.
Noob Status
My introduction to the Welsh 3000s was as a meat-head teenager, pumped up biceps and naivety in abundance. Me and a group of fellow personal trainers thought it would be a fine idea to lug 20kg over the 3100m of elevation, during the infamous 'Beast from the East' storms of March 2019. All was calm and serene as we pitched our tents on the shore of the idyllic Glaslyn lake, nestled at the foot of Snowdon. 5am rolls around however, and those tents are barely upright, rendered futile by the 100mph winds and snowstorms that persisted throughout the weekend. It's hard to be overly critical of that foolish initiation into mountaineering. I doubt we even had an hour's cardio between us in the bank, more accustomed to gym mirrors than the unforgiving elements of North Wales during a winter that won't seem to not bugger off. I remember packing a week's supply of bottled mineral water into my rucksack, clearly unaware that we would literally be trekking through the land of mineral water. I also recall discovering at the summit of mountain 1 of 15, that the GPX track I had downloaded to my watch didn't provide a breadcrumb trail to follow - bad news when facing blizzard conditions.
Fast Forward to the Post Pandemic Era
To this day I don't know how to use my Suunto watch, however I'm a hell of a lot fitter and have racked up hundreds of hours of experience in the wild (or whatever you call being 20 miles from a Tesco Express). I encountered the 3000s again in the summer of 2021, having cottoned on that this challenge is hard enough without sub zero temperatures and diminishing daylight. The world was a different place entirely, dozily rearing its head in the aftermath of a global pandemic, or what I refer to as 'the good old days'. The great reset had given me time to switch career, all whilst pretending to be a highly tuned triathlete, paid [peanuts] to train three times a day. What a dream to be able to emulate your heroes, with enough time to spare to prepare a wholesome evening meal, post it to Instagram, and retire wearily to the beanbag (these were humble times) for a hour's Netflix binging. Needless to say, I was in the shape of my life, but also well and truly broke. So with lungs like space-hoppers and legs all shredded and sinewy, I returned to Snowdonia with a runner pal, this time with an approach at the opposite end of the 'luxury glamper to feral human' scale. I scavenged a share pack of Jelly babies, and a tin of Ambrosia custard from my mum's kitchen cupboard, and as we uncurled our roll mats - stars illuminating that particularly scenic layby on the A4086 - there wasn't even a whiff of fear about what we'd face the next day.
Post Ultra Amnesia
Such is the phenomenon of completing a grueling endurance event, that your recollection of said event seems to cloud with the passing of time, distorting into a blissful act of triumph and grit. So strong is this distortion, that you can't wait to dream up an equally, if not more sinister challenge than the one that preceded it. You delight in dropping this miserable feat into conversation, with those you encounter during the build-up, and watch their mortal brain's explode as they rave about the 'kooky', 'hard as nails' athlete that stands before them.
A couple of hours after the start gun however, and you are reunited with that 'never again' regret, envious of the people you pass who don't feel the need to punish themselves in order to compensate for an otherwise bland personality and lack of social skills. Why can't I be that guy riding his lawnmower, or one half of the couple enjoying a picnic mid-stroll? And thus you restart the cycle, destined to join the washed up sixty-somethings with knackered knees, harping back to that marathon PB that no one gives a shit about.