A Quick Jog in Wales.

I can only see for 5 metres in every direction. I've just dragged myself and a rucksack up severall hundres metres of damp, grassy slope. We're searching for the next checkpoint, but I can hardly see Gaz, let alone a 2ft tall metal stand. "It's all gone tits up cos of t'weather" we joke, echoing yesterday's parking attendant. The sound of chatting voices piercing the fog, and signalling the nearby checkpoint is welcomed with unbridalled glee.

Hours earlier Gaz and I were stood at the startline of the KIMM, our rucksacks laden with our supplies for the race and our guts full of anticipation. Neither of us were aware of what lay ahead, other than fifty kilometres, a few hills and lots and lots of mud. We'd entered almost on a whim, and had been unexpectedly moved from the 'C' class (well within my abilities) to the 'B' class (at the stretch of my abilities). The months of nerves, anticiaption and even some training had led to this point - it was time to see what we were capable of.

Hahaaaaaa! Whooooooo! I'm barrelling down the valley, only just in control of my legs. The other competitors can see on our faces that these moments are the very reason we're in this event and gladly let us pass. The fog has started to clear, revealing the bleak rolling vistas of the Brecon Beacons. What the? ***CRUNCH*** A moments lack of concentration and I'm over on my knee. "It hurt a bit but it's OK" I reassure Gaz as we press on, convinced that the pain will pass.

In the evening, as I nestled in my sleeping bag I was wondering what on earth motivated me to actually see this event through. Surely only a burning desire to empathise with World War One veterans or a deep-seated mental illness could make you actually pay for the privellage of doing this. My deeply unsatisfying dinner of couscous with sewage-flavoured soup was battling away with several hundred grams of marzipan in my stomach. I was sure my feet would never be warm or dry again.

This is supposed to be the easy track at the beginning, but it appears we're destined to start day two trudging through what appears to be cow slurry. Passing the first checkpoint we start uphill and I can feel stabbing in my left knee. We're going to have to take it easy today to stand a chance of finishing without further injury.

On an event such as this, the course is vaguely pre-described but it's up to the competitors to find the best route between checkpoints. Experienced runners will choose a route that balances good terrain with short distance, whereas the uninitiated (like myself and Gaz) will choose a route almost entirely at random and spend much time hurdling heather tufts or yomping up unnecessary hills. There are times when we were entirely at the organisers' mercy. The organisers are clearly bastards. Well, they're fond of the odd river crossing at any rate.

It's OK. I'm running now, and after the inital pain I'm starting to feel good. We can make some good time along this ground. The big hill climb of the day is out of the way and the rest of the course looks pretty fast. We won't be making the same navigational mistakes we made yesterday either. Suddenly my vision is white as agony shoots through my knee. I nearly vomit with pain as Gaz helps me to my feet. "Are you OK to go on?" he asks. It takes all my willpower to dismiss the chance to quit and start limping towards the next checkpoint.

Now, I'm known to use some of the more colourful phrases in the English language from time-to-time, but my usual foul language is nothing compared to the torrent of filth running through my head every time my foot came down. The final ascent of the day passed in a haze of expletives and ibuprofen. I knew salvation lay beyond the top of the hill.

Endorphins. They come and go in waves, with spikes of agony in between. Just concentrate on not falling again. The world constists only of the track down to the finish, which flies beneath me faster than I can register. The grimace on my face is part pain and part elation as we storm past the cautious and the limping. Gaz keeps shouting me on. I know we're nearly there. The yellow 'Finish' marker looks more welcoming than any bed I've seen. We cross the line in total elation. We've done it.

So today I'm sitting here with blisters on my feet, sores on my back and a knee that barely bends. I finally arrived home at 2.30 this morning after a minibus journey that cannot be described without usin the words 'epic' and 'numbness'. My bedroom is strewn with muddy, fetid clothing. And I'm already looking forward to doing it next year.