Felicity Aston scurries off to Manchester for the Rat Race Urban Adventure and a ratifying day

The first indication of how far we’d cycled came when I asked a local for directions.

“What are you doing?” he asked, eyeing our chaotic and muddy appearance.
“The Rat Race,” I replied.
“But that’s in Manchester. What are you doing out here?”

Glancing down at the map I could see what he meant. We had left the suburbs of Manchester and were now entering Stockport. I wondered where else our trail of checkpoints would lead us before it finally turned for home. Late afternoon was turning into early evening and it looked unlikely we’d be back before dark. Naively we had set out expecting to be a few hours but we hadn’t reckoned on the mammoth sadism that is the Rat Race Urban X.

Early that morning I had cycled into the centre of Manchester to the race registration point in Piccadilly Gardens. Surreptitiously eyeing the gathered competitors I searched for anyone that looked unsure or unfit. In any race there is usually a fun-runner element that offers instant comfort and reassurance; but this crowd was terrifying. Every one of them was lean and muscled. They stood around oiling bikes, sorting kit, swigging from water bottles and munching on energy bars.

In contrast, I found my team lounging outside a nearby café having a morning cappuccino. Pete had prepared for the race by going for a few last minute runs and Jon’s only training was to work for a men’s fitness magazine. It became quite clear that in this race, we were the fun-runners.
Shuffling from one registration queue to the next, an electronic tag was attached to our wrists. At each checkpoint these ‘dibbers’ had to be placed in a small box. If we missed a checkpoint a 15-minute penalty was added to our race time. After demonstrating our ability to ‘dib’ successfully we were handed an A-to-Z of Manchester and a route card.

With a cry of “Release the Rats!” we were off. Hitting the street, teams scurried in all directions. We set off at a fast jog. Left with the map I desperately tried to aim for our first checkpoint while on the run. There is an art to map-reading on the move and after narrowly missing first a lamp-post, then an evil pile of dog mess I realised it was a skill I’d have to work at. Jon spotted the checkpoint. The seconds it took to ‘dib’ offered a welcome respite before moving on. The route led us through some deserted back streets before dropping down alongside a canal.

As a newcomer to Manchester, I had no idea what to expect but found myself quickly impressed. We ran through old industrial buildings, modern open spaces and parks full of greenery. Jim Mee, the race director admits that he had reservations about casting Manchester as a Rat Race venue, “I didn’t think it would work here but I visited the city a few times and realised that it had a lot to offer. As a result the event is very different in character to the Bristol and Edinburgh races.” Now he is being approached by cities across the UK wishing to be ‘ratified’ but Jim says three locations is enough to cope with. “Some of the invites from cities abroad are quite tempting though, particularly New York.”

Most of the checkpoints were easy to find while others made full use of some of Manchester’s more unusual landmarks. If there was a lock crossing, a strange sculpture, a quirky passage or a funky bridge you could guarantee that our route would take us over, around or through it. One checkpoint involved clambering through a Landrover, while another could only be reached by wading through a fountain. Several checkpoints involved completing a task, Parkour (or free running) seemed to be a favourite. The marshal directed us to a long set of steps with a handrail. We had to get to the bottom without touching the floor. Without hesitation Jon flung himself headfirst along the railing, sliding downward on his stomach. The marshal looked stunned; panic stricken that his instructions were about to result in a catastrophic head injury. “Err, most people just shuffle along,” he commented,” probably best.”

We arrived back at Piccadilly Gardens with an hour to recuperate before the next stage. Issued with a bigger A-to-Z and a longer list of checkpoints, the teams poured out of the square on bikes to generous applause from a crowd of slightly bemused Saturday shoppers, the tinkling of bike bells and a resounding blast of Flight of the Valkyries.

Heading out of the city centre we emerged into the maze of suburbs that surround Manchester. As the only one who could ride a bike without using his hands, Pete was charged with the map reading. We stopped outside an indoor shopping centre. “Straight through,” directed Pete, picking up his bike and walking through the automatic doors. We wheeled our bikes through the busy shopping mall trying to look as inconspicuous as possible in our mud-splattered Rat Race gear and bike helmets. Sure enough three security guards quickly emerged to stop us.

“We’re on the Rat Race.” Jon explained. Immediately we were waved on.
“Would this work with parking tickets?” I wondered.

With Manchester far behind we arrived at the kayak stage. It was a relief to get off the bike. Pete set off, as directed, on a run around the lake while Jon and I clambered into the distinctly saggy inflatable kayak. We weren’t the most co-ordinated of paddlers but at least we were moving forwards; we passed several teams who only managed endless pirouettes in the middle of the lake.

At the far side, Pete swapped with Jon for the return journey along a neighbouring river. The only way to bypass a section of shallow rapids was to clamber up the bank with the kayak and refloat it on the other side. Rejoining the river, our kayak was noticeably deflated. I clambered back in, more water joined me and Pete nearly fell into the river. The marshal on the bank looked mystified. He turned to a team who had arrived behind us, “Don’t worry”, he said, “these two are making it look hard.”

Back on shore I began to appreciate the toll that six hours of activity has on the unprepared body. My backside was so bruised that it was painful to sit on the bike and every bump in the road was excruciating. My hands were blistered, my calve muscles felt as if they were stretched so tight they would snap, my feet were soggy, my thighs screamed and I’d had a stitch for the last hour. On top of that, we’d eaten all our energy bars and were out of water. Why then did I seem to be enjoying myself?

Pete braked to a halt. “Fancy some chips?” He nodded to a chippy across the road. There was no discussion. Minutes later he emerged with three bags of chips and a bottle of coke. Not ideal sports food but good all the same.

Heading back to Manchester I hit rock bottom. I felt empty but refused to give in. We were going to finish. As night began to fall we gratefully arrived at Piccadilly Gardens and stiffly climbed off our bikes. The three of us were speechless. A marshal came over to congratulate us. “It was tough,” I murmured. “It is tough,” he replied, “that’s why it’s so great.”

Despite my broken physical state, I had to agree.

Felicity Aston is a BMC member who recently competed in an endurance race across the Canadian Arctic. The experience inspired her to try some UK adventure racing.

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