Terril being french for 'slag heap', or possibly 'unstable slag heap'. We can think Nicky for the following match report [with a few helpful comments, Loyal Webmaster]. Take it away Nicky.

Our original intention was to run the 30th Paris-to-Versailles 10m, but they’d cancelled it, with a customary Gallic shrug. So off we went to the coalfields of the Flemish borders, to do our duty in that corner of a foreign field. 

But the Injury Fairy’s visits are always unannounced, and, sure enough, as we set off across the channel, it looked more like the reverse of the relief of Dunkerque, with the number of walking wounded we were delivering to the battlefields. 

Valenciennes is known as the “Athens of the North”, yet, with it’s neo-NCP architecture, is ostensibly as alien to that city as it is to Paris or Versailles. However, the hotel was fine, the Belgian beer even better, and the friendly North African restaurant we found on the last night was perfect.

Our sortie into this hostile territory was by minibus, and all along we saw place names redolent of human conflict; history is everywhere. En route we stopped at Cassel, a 176 metre high hill dominating the otherwise unremarkable landscape, for a meal of local fare at l’Estaminet t’Kasteelhof, a traditional Flemish pub. Here were delicious Tartes Flamandes, cheese, dried meat, and of course locally-brewed beer. Those Who Dared, went even further and had Andouilettes, extremely strong-tasting sausages made from Chitterlings (small intestines of pigs). Perhaps these were offered to the Grand Old Duke of York’s men in 1763; their reaction is well documented. 

Fed and watered, our campaign continued a further 100km to Raismes, where the challenges were to take place the next day. Here, along with 3,700 other runners, we collected our numbers and chips. We were advised that heavy rain was forecast for the night, rendering Les Terrils even more challenging, the next morning. How convenient. 

Sunday dawned, overcast and warm; the rain had abated. We had one participant in La Furtive, the 7.5km race (including one Terril), four entries in l’Authentique (14km race, 3 Terrils) [La Pathetique I call it] and no less than eight hardy souls ready to brave le Sauvage (23km, with the full complement of 4 beckoning Terrils). Start times for the races were staggered, with the shorter races off first. 

The routes are largely through thick forest, with undulating tracks, mostly quite narrow and rutted. These are interspersed with long sections of uneven cobblestones. Just as one becomes accustomed to the terrain, there looms large on the horizon a Terril, a high, very uneven, very steep, very damp mound of coalmining waste; and it’s “over the top one more time, lads”. Terrils are not really run-able as such, but largely have to be scaled on all fours, like a monkey. One of them actually had a handy rope on one side of the track. Extreme caution also had to be taken on the descent, to avoid ending up with a twisted ankle or worse, like some of the runners we witnessed being brought in. 

Imagine if you can, the seething mass of humanity clambering up the final coalface; damp, grimy, sweating profusely, and heaving as one. Try to perceive the particular earthy tang of those thronging Gallic bodies, weaned on pigs’ entrails, other offal and strong cheese. All we needed was the stench of cordite to complete the picture. 

But then, as we descended, came on the breeze the familiar lilt of an accordion, accompanying the growing shouts of “allez, allez”, even “allez les anglais”, from the solid support en route. 

The first Le Sauvage runner home in a Beckenham vest, in 1:50, was Ben’s pal Jules, who, with Sheila, had travelled from Glasgow to join us. Both were welcome honorary Beckenham runners for the weekend. Sheila had already completed a commendable La Furtive run, and was delighted to cheer Julian across the line. 

Next in was Mark Lacey, clearly more comfortable in a warm French September than a freezing cold and wet Grizzly Devon March. He came in looking his laid-back self, fresh at 1:54. 

Ben, who’s been carrying an injury, and a very large GPS, had planned to take it easy(?) – he sashayed in, looking good, in 1:59. Nice to see him back as the first Beckenham lady (only joking) [And, thanks to Clare, Im not even that.]. 

Also attempting comebacks were Nicky, who’s stomach stitches are now a mere photographic record in Loyal Webmaster's “Gallery of Pain”, Andy Hampson, who was understandably nervous about his back giving way half way up a Terril, perhaps resulting in his not being able to reach his wallet later, and John (Le Dentist) who said afterwards that he’d enjoyed the run “in a masochistic kind of way”, and didn’t look down in the mouth at all. All 3 completed the 14km run.

23km was the farthest Gail had run since her last Marathon, way back in 1996, when she was 21(sic?). Power to her and her now legendary Gateaux Rochers, which provided welcome sustenance for all, after the run. Stuart, bless him, was not at his best, but he could not blame sea-sickness this time. He appeared from the haze, looking rather like a shell-shocked casualty of the trenches; yet he still managed to complete his 23km in 2:03 [Behind Ben, everyone, but to be absolutely clear, was suffering from cramp]. Andy Hinds put in a good performance (for his age) with 2:07, though he did then spend the rest of the weekend trying to convince us everyone had run at least one kilometre further than the distance on Ben’s “infallible” GPS. 

Dark horses were Alan over 14km, and Mel and Derek (23km), who all did fantastically well, clearly having been indulging in some secret training, or, maybe they’re just more closely related to our Simian progenitors than the rest of us.

Last, but by no means least, were our walking wounded – Steve K, Martin (don’t call me S…) and Dean, who were all indispensable Bagmen, Cheerleaders or David Baileys for the day. And how Dean manages to stay so slim, with all the MacDonalds he consumes, is a mystery to us all. 

A great weekend was had by all. But the unsung hero of the campaign has to be Connor, our coach driver. He joined in and socialised, counted us all out, and back, and ferried us hither and thither, all weekend. Shame we couldn’t convince him to take up running, but maybe we’ll see him when we get the much-vaunted ski trip arranged, and visit him in Meribel soon. 

Any ideas for BRC-abroad 2007?