North Downs Way 50 – Centurion Grand Slam part 2

Standard

For someone who values the sociable nature of ultrarunning and never fails to make friends on the trails, there’s something very appealing about staying on my own the night before a race. I often stay in a random little pub or B&B if I can, find the nearest Italian restaurant/supplier of obscene quantities of carbs and red wine, tuck myself away in a corner with a book and just be. I love it. It’s worth being apart from my fish and my budgies and my Andy and our castle, much as I hate to leave them, for the meditative solitude of the pointless traveller. Bonus points if there’s no signal or wi-fi.

Having started three ultras from beautiful Farnham I’m well-acquainted with its charms, and so apparently were many of the other North Downs Way 50 competitors. So when I finally got my arse into gear to book my pre-race accommodation, obviously all the nearby hotels were full or obscenely expensive. Fair enough. Good opportunity to get even further away for some peace and quiet and grumpy time, where the options were plentiful and much cheaper, even including the cab to Farnham. I ended up with a B&B in nearby Ash, The Lion Brewery, which turned out to be a pub and music venue as well, and almost literally the only thing in Ash Parish apart from cottages. Doom Bar on tap, copper pans on the walls, fried egg sandwich waiting for me at 6:15 the next morning. Yep, this’ll do.

IMG_7096

The route for the Centurion North Downs 50 is the first half of the 100 mile version, starting at the head of the trail in Farnham and following it as far as Knockholt; having attempted that twice before I was pretty confident about my knowledge of the route. Probably a little too confident – let’s be honest, any amount of confidence before an ultra is too much confidence. As with the 100, we started at St Polycarps School for the race briefing and registration, in a hall that smelled of floor varnish and sugar paper; I felt like I was nine years old again. Just like nine year olds we walked in a crocodile formation down to the start, comparing packed lunches and buzzing with excitement.

As usual, I had pretty good company for the run. A lot of familiar faces from previous Centurion races, almost half the field prospective grand slammers. And a little bit of glamour thrown in – the perennially sunny Susie Chan was running with broadcaster and keen long distance runner Sophie Raworth, taking on the distance for the first time. Sydnee Watlow (half Chaser and half Fulham Runner) and her clubmate Henri were also running in what would be their first 50 mile race, as well as Lovely Sam (stalwart of XNRG races) aiming for an improvement on last year’s eight and a half hours. Sam started at the business end of the pack, obviously, but I ran with Sydnee and Henri at a steady ten minute mile pace for as long as I could hang on – at least while we had the runnable and friendly North West Surrey terrain.

IMG_7094

I hadn’t seen much of Sydnee since last August when she volunteered to pace me in the later stages of the 100, but since I quit at mile 66 we never got the chance for a good old gossip. We more than made up for it over the first three hours, enjoying a sociable pace and the perfect running conditions: dry but not hot, overcast but not muggy, bright but not blistering. Henri stayed just a few paces ahead of us all the way like a bodyguard. The first checkpoint at Puttenham around mile 7 passed in the blink of an eye, and shortly afterwards Sydnee’s dad popped up at the bottom of St Martha’s for a check in and a bit of gratuitous photo taking. What else are parents for, eh?

Before long we reached the River Wye at Guildford and the legendary bacon butty barge, manned (obviously) by two chaps in inflatable sumo suits. Never mind not being able to eat on the run – these cold bacon butties saved my life last August and there was no way we could pass without grabbing some, even if it meant walking briefly while we digested them. Sydnee even suggested that we take photos of ourselves with the butties… just as I was retrieving the plastic wrap from halfway down my throat, having inhaled mine. Ahem. I mean as food tourism opportunities go this is up there with wagyu beef and caviar, but I’ve either got time to eat or Instagram, not both. I did manage to get a snap of the barge as we marched away with our swag though. Maybe I could just go back for one more…

IMG_7117

Newlands Corner was the next station; by this point Sydnee had had a couple of impromptu comfort breaks where I’d preferred to hold off for the relative luxury of the café facilities so I took a few minutes to refresh before taking off again. It turned out there was another Chaser, Alice, who was also tackling her first 50 miler that day and we bumped into each other (almost literally) in the ladies, happy to see even more friendly faces. Perhaps it was to do with the fact that I was running with three people new to the distance but there was an air of caution, or perhaps patience, and so instead of my usual MO of smash and grab I took my time filling up water bottles, getting fruit and cookies (now I know that’s the only thing I can keep down during a race). Actually I might have been dawdling a little too much; when I was done Sydnee and Henri were raring to go to avoid seizing up so off we took.

Almost immediately, a leaden feeling settled into my legs. It didn’t feel like cramp or muscles getting cold – this was a very definite “are we done yet” feeling. Ah. I mean, I wasn’t expecting to break any records since once again (load up the broken record) I was in between two insanely busy periods of work and running on fumes to begin with, but 16 miles isn’t quite where I’d expected to flag. Alice had stayed back at the aid station for a few moments and Sydnee and Henri were on a roll so I let them go and trotted on for a bit on my own; a blessing in disguise as it also gave my stomach time to settle. The pointless traveller was on another pilgrimage to nowhere.

I was being super conscious of salts and hydration after the fiasco that was the South Downs 50 five weeks before – not that I needed to be so vigilant since it wasn’t anywhere near as hot or exposed, but it paid off. Besides the bacon butty I’d also crammed the Lion Brewery’s fried egg sandwich down about half an hour before the race start which in turn was chasing half a packet of peanut cookies, so I was slightly uncomfortable but in no immediate danger of bonking. Look at that, a lesson learned. It also meant that I could more confidently rely on the aid station food and carry as little as possible, another huge improvement on the last two attempts at this course when every extra gram seems to have double gravity on the hill climbs.

Alice caught up with me somewhere around Ranmore Common and we ran together for a little while – perfect timing really, I was starting to feel sociable again and missed the company that had made those first few miles fly. She was a fascinating person to talk to and not as new to the club as I had originally assumed, just to trail running; I was reminded of just how many Chasers there are marauding around the south west of London that I haven’t got to know yet. A couple of years ago we had a solid little group of social trail runners but that generation – myself very much included – either seemed to have moved away or moved on. I can’t tell you how important those people were in shaping my athletic career, such as it is, but more crucially in helping me build my confidence. These last few months I’d cut myself off from the club, pleading a busy work schedule for not being at training but also avoiding contact on Facebook because I felt like I just couldn’t keep up; the idea of logging in just to see how much fun everyone was having depressed me, and knowing what a shitty attitude that was made me feel even worse. I love sharing my friends’ achievements; it’s not competition that made me feel inadequate, more my lack of involvement. Enough selfish moping; it was time for me to pay it forward and start being more involved in the club again. The more that newcomers like Alice are given the support to take on a challenge of this magnitude with such grace as she did, the stronger our sport becomes and the further away those unbreakable boundaries are pushed. Before long she was also too fast for my lumpy legs and took off into the distance, on the way to smashing her first 50 miler with a sub-11 hour finish.

Everyone tackling the North Downs for the first time speaks of Box Hill with fear; I had actually been looking forward to it all day. Familiarity helps, knowing that once you’ve got past it there aren’t all that many lungbusters to go helps, warming up to it by freewheeling down past the Denbies vineyards definitely helps, and the hug from Lorraine – into whom I nearly crashed at the bottom of the Denbies estate, as I launched myself into her arms with a war cry – was like having rockets strapped to my arse. The Stepping Stones aid station is positioned at the foot of Box Hill so that runners can grab a boost of energy before the climb; it’s also a good opportunity to use a new set of muscles and refresh the calves and ankles that have been taking a pounding on the road leading downhill from the vineyard. My stomach was surprisingly fine, I’d been getting through a good amount of water and a sip or two of Tailwind, and I was letting my mind wander free as I ran alone, giving the grey matter a bit of exercise too. But my legs were far from happy. They weren’t particularly stiff, nor in pain apart from a slight niggle in my right IT band exacerbated by the relentless camber. They were just dog tired. I wasn’t worried about the hill since all I had to do was grind it out, but I was worried about what would come after it. Namely, another marathon over undulating terrain with little opportunity to get into a rhythm. This was going to be a slog.

IMG_7116

A couple of young families out for a hike – by which I mean two three-year-olds and a granddad with a babe in arms – overtook me on the climb up the Box Hill steps, but even if I’d had the motivation to speed up there was nothing in the tank. I took my time and enjoyed the perfect weather conditions – by now there was gorgeous late spring sunshine making the leaves above us glow. At the second incline after the peak I realised I would need some help, especially with Reigate Hill on the way as well, and kept an eye out for a good sturdy stick. There were lots of fallen trees and hundreds of willowy switches or stumpy branches, but nothing that would quite do the job. It would need to be long enough to be able to lean on, strong enough to take my weight and light enough not to be a burden. As I scanned the side of the track looking for this perfect stick two runners passed me wielding proper collapsible walking poles, as if to taunt me. I’ve resisted trying walking poles partly because simplicity is important to me when I’m running – after all, I like this sport specifically because it needs minimal kit – and partly because I’ve nearly lost an eye to them before, and I don’t want to cause a nuisance. But the more I run, or rather the older I get, the more I see the advantages to using them. I watched the two runners pass me with ease, advancing up the hill as if it had an escalator.

Just as I dropped my gaze back to the floor in despair I spotted something that looked like it might be perfect, if only it wasn’t part of a tree. I nudged it with my foot, then began to unearth it. My perfect stick was stuck in a bit of mulch but otherwise totally loose, and exactly what I was looking for. It even had a little notch from an old branch at exactly the right height for holding it, as if designed to take the crook of my thumb. If I’d hand carved the thing I could hardly have improved it. Stick in my right hand, I dug into the ground on every fourth step and immediately felt the benefit in my quads. This was much easier. By the time I was at the top my stick had my eternal gratitude and a name. Meet Woody.

As I always do, I reached the top of the incline bracing myself for Bastard Reigate Hill directly afterwards, and finding more single track winding for miles through the glade. I don’t know why but every time I somehow forget that there’s a three mile stretch between Box and Reigate and so what is meant to be a lovely runnable little section is spent worrying about the hands and knees crawl coming up, conserving energy for it instead of making up time. When we’re out on a social run or training it’s one of my favourite bits. When I’m racing through it – this would be the fifth time I’d covered it in a race – it is my Achilles heel. The irony is that bracing yourself for three miles is slightly more exhausting than just running. As I grumbled my way through the wood a couple of ladies drew level with me, admired Woody, my white sleeves and my wild hair, and told me I looked like Gandalf. In retrospect I missed a damn good opportunity to shout YOU SHALL NOT PASS but that might have been taking it a bit too far.

Part of my obsession with Bastard Reigate Hill is that no-one ever talks about it but is a proper bona fide bastard of a hill. I mean, it’s cruel and relentless and twisty and really fucking steep, and it has a convex profile so you can’t see the top until you’re actually on it. I’m not exaggerating here. As soon as we started the race I just wanted that bit to be over and done with, so naturally, it took a lifetime and a half to get there. But once we were there, the climb itself seemed to pass in only a minute or two. Was this what I’d been bitching about for miles? Either my memory was trolling me again or Woody was making a massive difference – Jesus, I really need to give walking poles more of a chance. I even had time and energy to appreciate the carpet of bluebells that seemed to personify the North Downs in spring. Once at the top it’s a short trot to the next aid station, and I knew this one would offer another toilet stop and a cracking view as well as the usual treats. Just like that, my legs started to come back to me.

IMG_7118

Meanwhile though my watch was having another tantrum – usually so reliable, for some reason the signal between Denbies and Merstham seems to be just a bit too sketchy to sustain accurate measurement and it read at least a mile and a half behind where I knew we were. Oh well, back to the good old fashioned mental arithmetic method. After making sure my number had been registered at the checkpoint I took my time to have a good old stretch and cool down on the grass, as well as stock up on watermelon and cookies and go to the loo; needing the loo twice in one race is definitely unprecedented for me, so despite my lethargy my hydration was obviously still on track. When I finally got going though I knew that there wasn’t anything left in the tank and consigned myself to a nineteen mile death march to the finish. My crap maths told me that even a walking pace would get me to the finish within the cutoffs as long as I didn’t dawdle and the occasional trot would afford the me luxury of pausing at checkpoints, so that would be my tactic from now on. Andy got his usual whinging phonecall while I hobbled off down the track and I gritted my teeth for the finish.

IMG_7119

We weren’t finished yet though, not by a long way. The familiar scoreboard of the Merstham Cricket Club popped up shortly afterwards to mark 33 miles in followed by a beautiful little church and a good mile of flat runnable tarmac on the way. Not for me though – every few paces I tried to run became agonising shuffles that eventually devolved to a walk again. I couldn’t run up hills, I couldn’t run on the flat, I couldn’t go fast downhill because my thighs were shredded. I just had to accept the suffering and trust the maths, and hope to quell the panic that was rising. The Caterham aid station at mile 38 (or mile 36 according to my Suunto) was a welcome opportunity to sit and stretch again, admiring yet more stunning views over the valley and get my nerves under control. The next stop would be mile 43, the other side of a long exposed stretch across Oxted Downs and a bitch of a climb up Botley Hill both of which have knocked me for six in the past. I was struggling just to keep moving forward by this point – if I could only get past the aid station the only cutoff I’d be chasing would be the finish time and I could pretty much hike the rest after then.

If I’ve learned anything running ultras it’s that suffering is temporary but failure is permanent. And this had become a suffer-fest like I’ve never experienced. Woody and I had gritted our teeth through the last agonisingly slow five miles, and finding a smiley face at the top of Botley Hill tipped me over the edge – for the first time in a long time I burst into tears. The lovely volunteer who was registering runners’ numbers was kind enough to ask me if I needed sympathy or just a minute to get over it, and even this little gesture, the last opportunity for me to regain my dignity, sent me into floods of tears again. I looked back down the hill I’d just climbed, to remind myself that I’d done it now – another milestone passed. The amazing food offerings – including homemade rocky road – tantalised my mind but turned my stomach. There wouldn’t be enough in the tank for me to run the last 7 miles but I could walk it in two hours and be within the cutoffs, and the calories I had on board would just about last that far. All I had to do was keep moving.

IMG_7109

Once we passed across the border from Surrey to Kent the landscape changed from woodland to jungle, and the terrain from hills to ruts and vicious cambers. The well tilled farmland creates ankle threatening channels wide enough for half a foot, like running through a half pipe, and the other foot is forced to land on the raised ground beside it. I persisted with a lopsided little hobble as long as I could but my left hip started to scream and I was forced back to a hike. This meant the farmlands seemed to go on forever – even more foreverer than they do when I run them. The race had become an exercise in extreme patience. I would get to the end in time now even if I crawled, but the key would be continuing to move – any amount of moving would be faster than stopping. Every now and again I forgot that I wasn’t aiming for 11 hours any more, did my mental calculations, had a bit of a panic, then remembered I was aiming for 13 now. Oddly enough the same thing happened to me at the South Downs Way 50, except then I had the excuse of a bonk. Now I was just knucking fackered.

IMG_7120

Another lady caught up with me as I trudged through the first of many cowfields; she didn’t have a GPS watch, just a normal timepiece, and asked how much further  I thought we had to go. I gave up following the mileage on my watch but was pretty sure that we’d only have three or four farms to get through and then we’d be done. She kept me company for those three or four farms, but when we got to the end of the fourth one and saw only miles and miles of farmland in front of us she realised I was not a reliable source of course information and ran on ahead. The next couple of miles, and that’s all it could have been, felt like Groundhog Day. The fields just kept coming. Did I misremember? I’m sure the last time I ran this the turnoff for Knockholt was after this gate. Problem was, they all looked the fucking same. Every new field inspired a new stream of expletives and a fresh temper tantrum, another feeble attempt to trot and another defeat.

Woody really came into his own here. He turned out to be the perfect weight for carrying while I ran as well as the perfect support pole for my death march. I started to worry about what would happen to him at the end – I would HAVE to take him home, I’d get him onto the train somehow and walk from the station instead of getting a lift in the car. He was too important to leave behind, more important than a comfortable journey home. I know it sounds silly to become attached to a bit of stick, but he’d stuck with me through more of the race than anyone else. As I worked feverishly through the logistics of getting my stick home, I realised that I had finally found the last gate out of the last field and directions to the finish line. Woody, you bloody genius.

Gripping him in my right hand I freewheeled down the road which would eventually double back to the village hall – only then did I realise the reason the last couple of miles seemed so unfamiliar is because they were. In the 100 you turn off the NDW about a mile and a half from Knockholt Pound and divert through a number of roads to enter from the west, and leave the aid station moving in the same direction. We had continued to run along the trail north of the road and gone past it before turning off to reach the finish, which presumably accounts for the extra mileage needed to make it a proper 50. It also means, however, that having run DOWNHILL to the road you then have to run back up again to get to the arch in the land behind the hall – probably a few feet of uphill, but a cruel final twist in a slog of a race. As I turned onto the road I saw Sydnee, who despite having finished over an hour earlier had waited for me to show me the way to the finish. The very last drop of effort in me spent climbing the hill to the finish arch, I managed as much of a leap over the finish line as my leaden legs would manage and fell to the floor, cuddling Woody and sobbing.

IMG_7114

I’d spent almost an hour planning my logistics so as to make sure Woody would come home with me; then, when Sydnee and her dad offered me a lift almost all the way I realised it would be both rude and unspeakably stupid to refuse just so I could keep my stick. I did spend a long time thinking it over though – Knockholt station is just over a mile away to walk, three trains to get me home then another mile from Mitcham, not impossible… Eventually though I had to concede that Woody was not coming home with me so I gave him a kiss and left him by the side of the finish area, hoping that he would be able to help another runner one day. Of all the emotional struggled I went through that day, parting with Woody was absolutely the worst. But, I thought on the drive home, I had a real live human being who had put her own comfort and recovery in jeopardy (again) to see me home safe. Once more Sydnee had come to my rescue, thinking nothing of it after smashing her first ever 50 miler in under 11 hours, and I couldn’t even think of the words to tell her how grateful I was. This is the spirit of trail runners and this is the thing I miss most of all when I can’t run.

It’s taken a while to recover from this race, in comparison with the South Downs – nearly a month on I still have a niggle in my right leg that probably needs medical attention, and a constant need for sleep. I’ll take that though, trade in a niggle free life just to get to the end. I still think of that day – mostly lonely, painful, and frustrating – with fondness because I finished it; if anything it means more to have gone through hell to get to the end than it would have if I’d had a textbook race and come out clean as a whistle. I’ve found a new depth that I can go to and still come back from. What a dangerous thing to know.

On reflection, and after browsing the comments on the Centurion Facebook page, I realise that I massively underestimated the race. Being familiar with it gave me confidence, but I neglected to confront just how tough a course it is; whichever way you look at it, it chewed me up and spit me out. Once again I have to admit I wasn’t fit enough for it, nor rested enough, and that’s something that needs to change before the next two in autumn. I know now what the consequences of ill preparation feel like, and that simply trading in preparation for lower expectations is not a long term strategy. I think I’d quite like to get a bit better at this running lark and not just scramble to the finish every time.

Baby steps.

Cover photo (C) Dan Milton – thank you for allowing me to use it and for not making me look like a mess…

Advertisements

Moonlight Challenge – fourth time’s the charm

Standard

You can look at endurance sports in one of two ways:

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again.”

“The definition of insanity is to repeat the same action and expect a different outcome.”

I mean, I’ve had a QPR season ticket for the last 8 years, so perhaps a bent for hopeless endurance sports was inevitable.

Here I am then on my fourth outing at the Moonlight Challenge aiming for the elusive fifth lap. Regular readers will remember attempt number one, where I foolishly aimed to nab my first ultra marathon finish on only my second ever long distance race and ended up humbled by the mud; attempt two where I basically chickened out; when number three was stymied by a knee injury I knew I would be back again this year.

IMG_6886

I would be, but two very important people would not. Wendimum, who had been such a regular supporter at Challenge Hub races that she probably qualified for a green number, had moved to The North where the weather comes from; and Mike Inkster, godfather of daft races, had finally handed the Challenge Hub reins over to Traviss and Rachel of Saxons Vikings Normans. The three challenges would now form part of their incredibly prolific portfolio of races, and all I’d heard about SVN was glowing reports. I mean, seriously-are-they-bribing-you glowing reports. Generous goody bags, medals so big and ornate you could pave a driveway with them, cake and beer a staple of every race. I was curious to see if they would do this historic event justice or if the spirit of the Challenge Hub races would simply be lost for ever.

Being Kent-based, the regular faces at SVN were many of the same ones that I knew from Challenge Hub and So Let’s Go Running, so it wasn’t totally unfamiliar ground. What became very clear very quickly was that although I was one of a handful of regulars the new RDs would bring a huge field to this relatively tiny race, with many 100 Marathon Club members and wannabes keen to try a rare “new” course. What was also clear is that nobody ever does just one SVN race. This is a community built around the idea that a) literally anyone can finish a marathon – which is true – and b) one marathon is never enough, and nor is a hundred. It’s like the Challenge Hub ethos on acid.

There were a few tweaks to the race, which loyalty insisted I should HATE but practicality forced me to appreciate. Change number one was that the race would start at 4pm, not 6pm, and more importantly that it would be moved forward by 4 weeks so that it fell on the somewhat milder March full moon night, not a bitterly cold and foggy February one. Change number two was the format; instead of a multi-lap race with a limit of five, it would now be an eight-hour race with complete laps counted towards the total, as many as you could finish so long as the final one started before 10:30pm. I hadn’t any other reason to be optimistic about the race given my appalling preparation and my extra stone in weight, but I did cling to the little luxuries these changes afforded.

The biggest luxury, especially given that Wendimum wouldn’t be there, was to have Andy crewing for me. Let’s be clear; Andy is not a runner. He does not find running as exciting as I do. He certainly does not consider the idea of sitting in a barn on a cold Saturday night, with no wi-fi or electricity, for eight full hours sandwiched by a two hour drive there and back, fun. I had to put on my most pathetic face to persuade him to do it. If I was to have any chance of nabbing the fifth lap I would need not to be worrying about driving home on tired legs or finding my food and drinks at each pitstop. At least we found a huge John Deere tractor to use as a base, and Andy got his fill of machinery porn for the day as we set up our camping chairs in front of it.

IMG_6876

Mooching about the start and half-heartedly stretching, I caught snippets of overheard conversations. The usual run-geekery and gossip, then I heard the word “elevation”. Three very serious looking chaps were discussing whether it counted as basically flat or the fact that the bridge over the motorway, which you cross twice per lap, cumulatively contributed to a lot of climbing. I held my tongue, but it was tough. I wanted desperately to jump in and tell them, elevation is not the challenge on this race. There are humps, but if you look back at your Strava when you finish the profile will look flat as a pancake. There’s a bit of mud, but any relatively experienced runner will be well prepared for that – and anyway, everyone here seemed to be wearing Hoka Stinsons and you can’t really be sure where the foot begins and the lugs end with those things. The repetitive nature of the laps aren’t anywhere near as bad a you’d think either; actually I’ve grown to love the rhythmic nature and comforting familiarity of lap format races. No, the challenge is far more insidious than that.

MC2017 elevation

Judging the flatness of this race is like measuring fractals. Is that flat ground? Sure. No, wait, look closer. Is that a rut? Try again. A rut IN a rut? Getting warmer. This is a farm on the coast, my friend. That’s right – the ground for at least half of each lap has been rained on, churned, dried out, flooded, churned again, dried again, over and over until there isn’t a square foot that isn’t made up of peaks and troughs which are in turn made up of smaller peaks and troughs that redefine infinity. Good luck finding somewhere to land your feet. I’m guessing this is why the race always used to be run in the rainy season.

No time to worry about it now though. Part of my tactics for persuading Andy to come with me was to promise that we could listen to the QPR game on the radio – that turned out to be an optimistic gamble as pointless run-up coverage of the pointless Six F**king Nations filled the airwaves so I left him to grind his teeth in peace while I checked the first section of terrain. I was wearing my comfy zero-drop Altras in the car intending to change into my Salomon Fellraisers for the race itself, but the ground was much harder tham normal and the Fellraisers’ lugs would have shredded my feet looking for mud to bite into. Not having trained much in the zero-drop shoes was presumably an Achilles disaster waiting to happen, but I didn’t have much choice.

On the plus side, Mike made an appearance after all – dressed for once in smart clothes and boots instead of running shoes and jungle shorts, he had a cameo appearance as the race starter. I was so pleased to see him I nearly knocked him over with my hug. An auspicious start, but unless you’ve run a cumulative 200 miles (or more) around one of his fiendishly difficult courses you can’t appreciate the love I have for Mike, who has become the godfather of ultrarunning to me. That’s Stockholm Syndrome, isn’t it? Either way, another good omen for the race ahead.

There wasn’t the usual rocket going off for the start (“the man who was meant to bring it forgot”) but there we were, pretty much bang on 4pm, set loose on the trails of two of Kent’s muddiest coastal farms. The loop is made of (as Traviss perfectly described it) a dumbbell, where one loop is on Brook Farm, the furthest point of which is also the start/finish, the other is Bell Isle Farm, and the crossover is the bridge over the A299. Brook Farm is definitely the marshier of the two and includes the tricky little ridge of holy-crap-what-IS-that-we’re-running-on, which I am informed is only 400 metres long but can assure you is closer to about twenty miles. It’s ankle-turning central round there, and there are no prizes for finishing it first. So, although I held off walking until the fourth lap, I did take that section at a trot rather than a canter.

MC2017 route

The first lap went smoothly, a good opportunity for regulars to reacquaint themselves with the route in the light and for newbies to learn it, for although it’s signposted Brook Farm in particular has a fair few turns that are easy to get wrong. By the second I was a little bored of being a Focused Runner, and tried to chat to a couple of people, and by a happy coincidence bumped into Jimi Hendricks (real name) from the Rebel Runners. I had run this same race with Jimi and Paula for a fair chunk last year, when both were on their third or fourth ever marathon. In the intervening year Jimi, with the help of SVN, had become a marathon running machine and had completed something like 70 more, well on his way to the 100. These are people who absolutely share my ethos for running, and the more I spoke to Jimi the more I learned about the work that SVN do effectively operating their running community as a feeder system for the 100 Marathon Club.

The belief that anyone can finish a marathon or ultra and in fact all those people can easily go on to finish a thousand more if they want to is underpinned by the practice of stripping back the things in races you probably don’t need (chip timing, baggage pens, disco music and coordinated warmups) and focusing instead on the things you do need (logistical support, sense of humour, a fuck ton of food and a pint of beer at the end). By running many of their races as timed events rather than distance ones, the stress of hitting cutoffs or getting drop bags to the right place is eliminated immediately. Of 91 finishers, 22 completed 5 or more laps in the allotted time to bag themselves an ultra (including one man, Alix Ramsier, who made it to 52.8 miles to take the longest distance by a full 2 laps); a further 49 completed a marathon. And the other 20? They all got their finishing time, their medal and their goody bag too. No DNFs, no timeouts. I’ve been listening to the Ultra Runner Podcast obsessively and host Eric Schranz raised this point just recently – if you’re running your first ultra, a fixed time event as opposed to a fixed distance one is definitely the way to go. I’ve got to hand it to SVN, they’ve got this COVERED.

Back to the race. Among the marathon finishers are two people without whom I’m not sure I’d have finished, certainly not with a smile on my face anyway. Simon Lewis and I did a little dance of face-in-a-strange-place “Do I know you?” until we worked out that no, we had not met at previous Challenge Hub Races, no, there was no Kent connection; Simon is in fact another Clapham Chaser and co-Event Director of Tooting Common parkrun. How we found each other all the way out here…  I knew Simon’s face and I knew his name from the weekly club results roundup, but I’d never put the two together before. I’d also never realised there was another Chaser who subscribed to the more is more ethos for race finishes, and who was also well on the way to the 100 Club shirt. We ran half of the second lap together, just as the sun packed itself off to bed, playing chicken with our headtorches. Simon’s finish got him to marathon number 72 and his goal – which I have no doubt he will smash – is to hit the hundred before the end of December. I felt like I was in good company.

About halfway through the third lap, after I’d steamed ahead of Simon with a rare and foolhardy burst of energy, I realised I was back to running a boring loop on my own again and there weren’t even any views to enjoy. Well, there’s the sodium glare of the A299, but it’s hardly anything to write home about. And just as I started grumbling away to myself I came across another lone runner similarly wondering why the hell we were staring at a main road. Claire turned out to be more excellent company for what was becoming the slog part of the race. A lifelong film buff, she remains the first person I’ve ever met who does now for a living what she wanted to do when she was a little girl: a graphic designer that makes film posters. We chatted easily for a lap and a half, a good eleven miles that I barely noticed passing.  In that irreverent way that you do when you meet someone you click with, we discussed GI issues on the run, favourite ways to fuel (both having recently dicovered Tailwind), why do romcom posters always have black and red Arial font on a white background, and Kiera Knightley. It turned out that she’d read my blog before (poor woman) and we shared URLs before we parted at the end of lap four.

I was genuinely gutted to lose Claire for the final lap but she had already pretty much made my race. She forced me to slow a little and walk the occasional inclines, which I’m usually loathe to do but always always regret later on, and I’m positive that that gave me the energy to make it through the final lap. Before I started Andy and I did a little mental calculation and worked out that by giving it a bit of welly I could actually be done with this lap in about hour and a quarter and make the six and a half hour watershed for starting the last one, but it would be a bit stupid to rush and risk injury. Plus, Andy really did not want to be there for another hour and a half. No, I would learn the lessons that Claire had taught me and take it easy for this lap. And since I’d be on my own I put my headphones in for the first time to listen to an interview with my hard-work hero, Jamie Mackie, on the QPR podcast. And off I went.

The zero-drop shoes were, surprisingly, a dream. Given the hardness of the ground and the lack 0f practice running in them I really expected to crash out with an Achilles nightmare (2016 had been that sort of year) but my calves, knees and feet were absolutely fine. I mean, slightly sore in the way that legs that have run a marathon tend to be, but not the sort of sore that actually stops you; in fact I felt as strong as I had in the second lap. Perhaps Altra are onto something here – why the hell are they so hard to find in the UK? I did a bit of shoegazing and saw a ton of Hokas, some Salomons, the occasional Inov-8 (I tried some of those again last week and they’re definitely dolls’ shoes, not made for duck feet like mine) but definitely no other Altras.

The Focused Runner approach actually seemed to be working for me and I kept a steady and not disrespectable pace up for three quarters of the lap before I became conscious of myself ramping up. Then I came across the windmill which marks the final straight, about half a mile of road which goes a bit up and then lots down, and I bloody went for it. The balls of my feet burned, my glutes started firing, my arms pumping as if I was on the Mall at the end of the London Marathon. It hurt, but it hurt good. A hop and a skip through the open barn door and I rang the bell to say I was done – 9 seconds after the final lap cutoff. Worth it. And the goody bag was, true to form, unspeakably good…

IMG_6888

Andy had to concede it wasn’t the worst time he’d ever had, and I think he finally understood what I see in this daft sport when he met the other characters that make it what it is. For my part I don’t think I’ve ever finished a race that strongly, and it gave me a huge boost for the Centurion 50 Mile Grand Slam – something which, with the first race only four weeks away, I was terrified about. After a dismal year of injury upon exhaustion on top of weight gain added to laziness this race really hit my reset buttons  – and obviously the first thing I did when I got home was sign up for the first random SVN race that wasn’t aleady sold out (August). Traviss and Rachel have done a fantastic job of keeping the Challenge Hub spirit alive and I’m sure Mike is relieved to know his races are in good hands. Me, I’m just glad to have my mojo back. God I’ve missed this.

Ask me again in four weeks.

IMG_6885

North Downs Way 100 2016

Standard

Apparently when I was about 4 years old I wanted to be a midwife. I have no recollection of this; I have many vivid memories of early childhood but my ambitions to help bring more humans into the world is both at odds with my temperament and completely missing from my memory bank. Still, Wendimum insists it was true, inspired to some extent by the arrival of my little sister. What I do remember, quite clearly, is realising my limited capacity for human compassion when a few years later Leyla, Dad and I were watching a film on TV with a scene where a man driving with his dog in a beautiful classic car go off the edge of a cliff. My sister cried for “the poor man!” I only had sympathy for the dog and my dad shed actual tears for the wasteful loss of an original MG Roadster. Welcome to our family.

Things I definitely have wanted to be include Jayne Torvill (I was the absolute nuts at ice skating until we moved to a country that couldn’t power a household freezer let alone a rink), a crime scene investigator, Rainbow Brite, a soldier, a jazz singer, a comedian, and the skateboarding kid from The Crow. Then half a year before my 30th birthday I discovered that I wanted to be an ultrarunner, and that was that. I wanted to run the Western States 100 miler, and I’d work up to it while on the way to my hundredth marathon. I’d just keep running as many ultras as I could by way of training and eventually either have my name pulled from the hat or beg them until they got bored of me. Around 1am on Sunday 7th August 2016, I gave up on that ambition. I admitted to myself that hundred milers were probably not for me, and it felt kind of liberating.

Never say never and all – if I die without ever finishing a hundred miler I will die with regrets – but as pacer Katherine and I trudged through the woods to Holly Hill, barely scraping inside the cut off, I actually stopped wanting to finish the race. My desire to curl up in a foetal position, to stop the nausea pounding through my head, massively outweighed the pride I knew I’d feel if I got to the end or the frustration if I didn’t. Déjà vu – same point that I quit last year, same issues with eating and hydration, same relentless sun beating down all day. Spoiler alert – I surrendered.

I didn’t start off so negatively – in fact, despite my lack of training and poor lead up I was actually pretty confident about the race, much more so than last year. Not being able to think about it turned out to be the perfect antidote to my usual pre-race nerves. I had been working on a big freelance job as well as my main full time job since May, and to say it went badly was an understatement; averaging 3 hours sleep a night I ended up in A&E with a chest infection and nearly had a nervous breakdown. A few weeks out I emailed Cat to say that I didn’t think I should do the race – I couldn’t run at all, I was exhausted, gasping for breath like a 60-a-day smoker and the scant few hours I did sleep were punctuated by anxiety dreams. The only thing that persuaded me not to throw the towel in was her faith in me (and her refusing to let me pull out). And besides, the 6th August was ages away yet. Sort of.

The Friday before was due to be a big day for Andy and me: the day we moved into our first house. It was meant to be the smoothest transaction possible, given that we had no chain and the owner wanted to be out by the 30th of July. Utilities were arranged, van men booked, belongings packed up, goldfish in a Tupperware – we were all systems go. Then Monday of that week our solicitors told us not to get too excited about completion happening that quickly, perhaps a 60% chance of success. Tuesday we were downgraded to almost certainly not, Wednesday was unpack your bags, you’re never moving house again. But don’t worry, the 6th August looked like a safer bet. Balls.

As our optimism about moving before Christmas/doomsday drained away faster than England’s hopes in a major football tournament I had to put all thoughts of the race out of my mind. Certainly I hadn’t had optimal training opportunities for it, and nothing to suggest that the blood sugar issues that knocked me out last time were any better – I wanted to be there anyway though, if only to crew for Cat and generally offer cake and abuse. Friday 30th came with no possibility of moving within the month, and since we’d booked the day off anyway I called up Cat and arranged to go for a trot around Richmond Park to cheer up. It was so good to catch up with her after being AWOL from the Chasers for the last two months that it was almost as a side note that I casually said I’d be free on the 6th now – immediately the words left my mouth she put the call out on the Chasers Facebook page, and within two days I had 8 offers to pace and crew and a hotel room by the start. No turning back now.

IMG_6359

6th August. We’re shuffling about in the main hall of St Polycarp’s School again, half past five on the Saturday morning. We’re taking advantage of the loos (actual toilets, luxury), rearranging our race vests, scanning the room for familiar faces. We’re writing inspirational messages on our arms in marker pen. Cat’s say “zebra” – zebras being famously chill animals – and “CYP” for “choose your perspective”. Mine are less philosophical – my right arm bears the legend SALT! and the left hand EAT! because I need reminding of both of those things constantly. We’re both hoping to become centurions by the end of the day. As we march towards the starting line a few yards on from the monument, we’re both yawning.

IMG_6362

And that’s how it starts, very little fanfare. I stick with Cat for less than half a mile before letting her streak off ahead of me, reasoning that there’ll be plenty of people to chat to. My strategy is clear: manage energy. Eat early, eat little, eat often; take it easy to begin with, use the first few miles as a warm up and don’t bother running any of the hills. I set myself the target of eating around 100 calories (half a sausage roll, a gel, a handful of nuts) every half hour and taking a Saltstick capsule every hour on the hour, which is nice and easy to remember. In theory.

Being so familiar with the route now the first aid station came and went without my really being aware of it, and I started to warm up nicely. The temperature was high but not unbearable, and the lovely thing about the North Downs is that so much of it is sheltered you don’t tend to suffer too much exposure. Or at least, not before 9am you don’t. So I kept on track with my plan to drip feed myself, already feeling my stomach muscles tighten up after last night’s feast turned my waistline into something Friar Tuck would have been proud of. I judged by time rather than distance, partly because I knew my pace would vary so much in the course of the day and partly because I knew I’d need food before I got hungry, and time is a much more consistent way of measuring that.

By the time I got to Guildford I was starting to feel a rumble in my belly and the half hour interval coming up, and right on cue the bacon boat came to my rescue – a group of supporters on a narrowboat on the River Wey, moored against the trail where it leads to the bridge, offering a huge pile of cold bacon sandwiches prepared with a choice of either red sauce or brown sauce. As someone who usually likes their bacon scorching hot and burned almost to a crisp, I seriously cannot describe how good that thing tasted – I considered turning around and going back for more and the extra miles would absolutely have been worth it. It ticked the boxes for food, salt and sense of humour and I purred through the next few miles.

Three hundred runners stretch out surprisingly quickly – especially over 103 miles – and I found myself either alone or running with people not much in the mood for talking. I weaved through the familiar narrow tracks between Guildford and Dorking in my own little world, and really only looked up as we passed through the Denbies estate, the rows of vines unfurling beneath us seemingly for miles. It’s one of my favourite stretches of the North Downs – there’s just something about being on a road high up above the vineyard, a steep drop to your right like the edge of a cliff, perfectly angled to catch the warmth of the sun, that makes me feel more like I’m in the middle of the Meditteranean than Surrey. And if I could design a gradient that’s perfectly pitched for a enjoyable downhill freewheel going one way and a good climbable incline the other, it would be that hill.

IMG_6364

I crossed the A24 via the subway and turned back into the woods to the 24 mile aid station just before Box Hill, pausing for some amazing homemade cake and a stretch. Despite its reputation Box Hill is probably my second favourite part of the Downs – I’d much rather a good beefy climb you can really dig your heels into than a deceptive shallow incline you feel like you should run sapping your energy – and it’s also a good psychological break in the route. Once you’re past that, you’re past the worst of the climbing until night falls at least. The next point for me to look forward to would be the Reigate Hill checkpoint seven miles on, not least because my pacer for the last twenty miles, Lorraine, was volunteering there giving me a good excuse to power through the climb as quickly as possible.

By this time the sun was really starting to beat down. I was concentrating on my half hourly intake of salt sticks and food- wait, is that right? No, it’s just food every half hour and saltstick every hour, unless the food itself was salty. Come on Jaz – only a marathon in and already getting confused. Hold on, I must be more than a marathon by now. My watch was insisting on 25 miles but I’d definitely come more than a mile since the last aid station. Ah, I know what’s happened – I’ve got it on a less accurate setting so that it’ll last long enough to get me to the end, and it’s losing a few yards on every mile. I would have to check it at each aid station where I knew what the official distance was and remember to add on however many miles it was telling me if I wanted to know how far I’d come. Right, another bit of mental recalibration to do. I’m sure this’ll end well.

By the time I gave my number to the Reigate marshals at mile 31 my water bottles were bone dry and my watch was telling me I had gone 28.5 miles, and it took me a good few moments to do the maths. I sprinted over to the gazebo and gave Lorraine a big sweaty hug, ready to join the swarms of runners spread out over the grass like dead flies, but her smile immediately gave me a second wind. I was tempted to carry right on but forced myself to take a pause and a stretch, and to drink plenty of water before refilling and setting off. By this point eating was pretty low on the list of stuff I wanted to do but I knew I needed the calories, so I compromised on the heavy and hard to eat things by grabbing fistfuls of fruit as well. Watermelon and satsuma segments and pieces of banana, hell yes. Running is the rock and roll of the 21st Century.

IMG_6365

The next stop would be Caterham, the viewpoint another beautiful spot, with a trip through pretty Merstham on the way. Another 7 mile stretch that seemed to last for ages; there were a few hills thrown in which made time pass quickly but which also needed more calories than I was interested in taking on.Once I got to the aid station I took another pause to stretch, cool my feet off a bit and force down some food. I’d kept up my half hourly intake on the way but the amount I could eat each time was getting less and less and I took on more fruit to try to keep the nausea at bay. The next stop would be at 43 miles, on the back of another big climb, and this one wouldn’t be as much fun as Box Hill. Knowing it was coming up helped, but not by much.

As it turned out the climb was nothing compared with the half mile stretch before it. I remembered a little too late that Oxted Downs, where the Vanguard Way bisects the North Downs and the woods become overgrown farmland, are exposed and unforgiving, and as I tiptoed along the narrow singletrack I could feel my blood pressure pounding in my ears. It was so hot – not lovely Mediterranean warm, HOT. It can’t have been that long a track but it felt like it lasted forever. By the time I passed the gate to go back into the shade of the trees my head was already spinning. Just in time for the climb through the Titsey Plantation. I didn’t even have the energy to giggle at “Titsey”.

Remembering it from last year – and its many false endings – I patiently trudged upwards knowing that the 43 mile aid station would be at the top, and a chance to pause in the shade. Only seven relatively flat miles to the halfway point at Knockholt, which I mentally calculated as around an hour and a half of travel, meaning I’d only need to eat twice along the way. Yeah, maths. I grabbed a peanut butter and jam sandwich for the road and walked while I ate to save on time. This particular section includes the crossover from Surrey to Kent, where the terrain segues from woodland to farmland and goodbye tree coverage. It’s exactly when you want to come across knee-high vegetation you have you lift your feet over, a perfect time to need to look extra hard for fingerposts hidden in hedges, the ideal point to play “Find the Hidden Tractor Ruts With Your Ankles”. I don’t know if it’s coming across, but I hate this section. And with all this grumpiness to concentrate on, guess how many times I remembered to eat and drink?

IMG_6366

My maths failed me even more than my memory here – it took nearly two hours to make it to Knockholt including the diversion off the trail along Main Road. As I was whimpering about the pain in my feet every time they hit the tarmac and wishing for trails again, I found myself ambushed by the friendly grin of James, Cat’s other half, who gave me a hug and a boost and pointed down the road. “It’s just there, you’re so close now – Clare and Adam are there!” In my temper, I’d almost forgotten Clare would be pacing me between miles 50 and 60 and her flatmate Adam (ultra fanatic and adventure racer, a man who ran the MdS and called it “fun”) was waiting outside the village hall with his iPhone in his hand. I found a few scraps of energy to sprint up to the door and throw myself into Clare’s arm’s as Adam took photos – nope, not photos, a live video to Facebook. He asked met to say something and I literally couldn’t think of any words that weren’t wears. And you don’t swear in front of Clare. So I grinned.

Me and Clare NDW100 capture

I’d been keeping my eye on the “Toilet – y/n” column of my tracker each time I came up to an aid station expecting to need it constantly, but there just wasn’t anything there. In hindsight this should have been a warning that dehydration was already setting in but at the time my logic functions just weren’t doing what they were meant to; I mean, not laughing at rude place names should have been a warning sign in itself. So by the time I got to the Village Hall at Knockholt we were talking more syrup than juice. Adam allowed me a loo stop (although he had to send Clare in to check on me), found me some plain pasta (it took me three goes to explain that I wanted just pasta, no sauce), then told me to get going as soon as possible. I haggled myself a 25 minute break, planning to leave at 7pm, on the assumption that would be plenty of time to change and swap my drop bag over. At two minutes to, I still didn’t have my shoes back on and I’d forced down less than a handful of pasta. Valiantly lying through my teeth I insisted that I’d been eating every half hour and I was fine to get going. Lovely Lady Clare, the properest lady I know, had the good grace to humour my blatant lies and agree to a walk/trot for the first mile until we warmed up.

It didn’t take long for me to realise that there wasn’t enough in the tank for running, so we walked and gossiped. Physically I was falling apart but mentally Clare was a massive boost to me, happy to chat and gently remind me to eat every half hour as instructed. We worked out that I could walk and still make it in time so that would be my strategy until I found the strength in my legs to run again. Clare is one of those people who doesn’t have the vocabulary for negative sentiments and even when I moaned and complained like a petulant child she responded with patience and kindness. The ten miles to Wrotham would easily take three hours at this rate but Katherine would be waiting to take over, and Andy had promised to visit me there too so there was good reason to get there as soon as possible. I chewed on a pack of Doritos for a good hour (there is almost nothing on earth that would stop me eating Doritos) and Clare gave me an apple from her pack which I eked out for another hour, just about keeping my calorie deficit within manageable levels.Then, as if timed with the fall of dusk, I bonked hard in the final mile and a half to the checkpoint. Whatever I had been subsisting on up to that point ran out, and my stomach turned. I knew I needed to eat but I couldn’t face the thought of vomiting; knowing I had had the opportunity to avoid this feeling and been too afraid to take it made me feel even worse. There followed a mile and a half of me whingeing, sobbing, bitching about the road never ending, generally behaving like a toddler. Poor Clare.

The thing that frightened me most after the thought of vomiting was the thought of Andy seeing me in a state. Let’s be clear; Andy does not agree with me doing hundred milers. To be fair, his experience of them consists of rescuing me from deepest darkest Kent in the middle of the night because I’m too shredded even to speak properly, and I know he gets worried when he sees me looking like shite. We had originally agreed that he shouldn’t come at all because of the likelihood of me looking like crap and needing to get on with it regardless, but at the last moment I bottled it and asked him to pop by at an early checkpoint so I’d get the chance to see him while I was still fresh. He had plans during the day so opted to come to Wrotham instead, and double up as a lift home for Clare at the end of her stint. So he saw exactly what I didn’t want him to – me in a mess.

I was bundled into a chair when I got to Wrotham with Clare, Andy, Adam and Katherine all on hand to give me stuff. Adam, experienced in ultra running and knowing exactly how to break through a bonk, was buzzing around to keep me alert and forcing me to drink coffee. The combination of different voices and instructions only served to confuse me more, and I knew I wasn’t far from having to throw the towel in. The three runners were all keen to gee me up and get me to the next station before I was allowed to make a decision, but all I could see what Andy’s concerned face out of the corner of my eye. I avoided looking at him, pretended I wasn’t aware of his stare, but I knew whatever he was looking at wasn’t pretty. I didn’t notice how much my body temperature had fallen until I nearly dropped the cup of coffee in my right hand because it was shaking so much, so I put my extra layer on and tried to deflect probing questions from a medic who had come over to check on me. With now four voices telling me to man up and get on with it versus Andy’s one telling me I should quit, I forced myself out of the chair and back onto the trail with Katherine, reasoning at least that it would be quieter on the road, But I knew I was already spent. I quietly asked Andy to come to the next CP at Holly Hill in case I couldn’t get any further. That pretty much made the decision for me.

Having got moving again I did feel less cold and less grumpy, but still couldn’t get any food into my mouth. I probably couldn’t have planned my company better though – compared with Clare, Katherine’s approach was much more pragmatism and much less patience, and it’s exactly what I needed to keep going. I didn’t have the energy to lift my legs for running but we marched and chatted, and found ourselves in philosophical mood – I think at one point I was trying to define happiness, I can’t remember why. Something to do with Doritos probably. For her part she convinced me that we would be eaten by badgers or kidnapped by crazy people preying on vulnerable runners, both of which seemed pretty feasbile at the time.

Katherine couldn’t really understand why anyone would want to put themselves through a 100 miler, which sort of made me wonder why I had. Until that morning, I just wanted to be able to say I’d finished one; before that I’d wanted to do a qualifier to get into Western States one day. But Western States was a long way away even if I could finish this first – I was meant to be buying a house, not spending all my money on a trip halfway around the world – and so far my experience of 100 milers wasn’t even what Cat would call fun type 2; if your only reason for doing something is to be able to say you’ve done it, it’s very eas to lose the motivation to continue. Instead, it was making me confront a fear I have avoided confronting for fifteen years, and rather than deal with it properly I’d looked for diversions and tricks to get around the issue. Fitness wasn’t an issue really, even though I was a good half a stone heavier than I’d like to have been. Hydration probably had a bigger part to play than I’d like to admit but even that is fixable. I was generally injury-free; and I’d got through much worse pain than this before, and I’ve still yet to experience blisters or black toenails when running. Basically I’d been trying to conquer my fear of being sick by undertaking a huge challenge, one guaranteed side effect of which was being sick. Back to the drawing board on both of those, I think.

As we passed through Trosley County Park a runner and his pacer overtook us blithely ambling along, and said something to Katherine about getting me to Holly Hill before 1am. I’d stopped looking at my aid station tracker a long way back, and it turned out that we’d been going so slowly we were in danger of missing the cutoff for it, something which made sense when I realised they were the last runners I’d seen for hours. Even if we ran we’d be cutting it fine, and the final ascent to the CP would be a hands and knees scramble. I knew the game was up then, although to be fair the cutoff time was just the final nail in a very secure coffin. Unlike last year I wasn’t upset about pulling out, I wasn’t looking for excuses or blame, I just knew I’d had enough. When we finally made it to Holly Hill the lights were going off, the gazebo about to be packed away, and the marshals ready for bed. And there was Nelly and Andy.

There wasn’t any point in deflecting from the truth: I made a conscious decision that I would rather fail to finish than throw up, and followed it through. Until I could resolve that there wouldn’t be much point in trying to do 100 miles again. Andy concurred by forbidding me ever to try one again and we set about maing arrangements for Katherine to get back to her car and for third and fourth pacers Sydnee and Lorraine to get to theirs. I felt awful for making them come all the way to the middle of nowhere for no reason, but they were incredibly graceful about it – if there was ever a mark of just how awesome Chaser support can be that was it. We had to drive them to the 80 mile checkpoint at Detling, and by pure coincidence bumped into Cat there – she was going strong, still looking as fresh as when she’d started and downing a Thermos of tomato soup before James paced her to the end. Her resilience and her pure nails toughness made me realise I was so far away from being ready for the challenge that I stopped comparing myself to the other runners. This is a race that deserves the utmost respect, and to give it anything less is flirting with danger.

It’s an odd thing to do, endurance sport. There comes a point where the sport itself is a bit irrelevant and the endurance part becomes the real sport.In the last few weeks I’ve thought a lot about why I do it, and the fact remains that I love the challenge of endurance and I still find peace in running long distances. I have somewhat regretted my statement never to try another hundred, thinking perhaps that I should go for something in cooler season instead. Andy remains steadfast in his refusal to let me do another 100 though, so I suppose I have a much bigger challenge on my hands just in getting to the starting line. Either way, there’s no chance of me attempting this again without being 100% certain of my fitness and confident in my preparation – and most importantly, without confronting the big, vomity elephant in the room.

Talking to Alex, another 100 miler veteran, put into perspective just how silly a thing it is to be afraid of. “The thing is Jaz, it happens to everyone in a 1oo mile race. You just have to get on with it because you need to eat.” He’s right – being sick isn’t significant in the context of a race. Pulling out to avoid nausea is like pulling out because you’re afraid of getting a blister, or because you don’t like the taste of electrolyte drinks. Unavoidable and fundamentally unimportant parts of the ultrarunning experience.

At least, that’s what I have to convince myself if I’m ever going to get further than 66 miles. If I’m going to do it, I have to make the decision not to be afraid and there’s nothing more to it than that. That’s 100 milers in a nutshell, isn’t it?

IMG_6368

Moonlight Challenge 2016 – third time lucky?

Standard

 

Before I went into this race I had done – if you include each marathon length leg of multi-day events – 24 marathons or ultramarathons, most of which over the space of eighteen months. Not many of those are races I’ve done more than once; not a huge surprise considering the range of events available to the marathoner of 2016, but still an important point to me. I’m not, nor am ever likely to be, a racer in the sense of competing for a time, so returning to a course in search of a PB is pretty low on the criteria when looking for a race. As important figures as they are to athletics, Paula Radcliffe, Haile Gebreselassie and Mo Farah aren’t such heroes to me as the stoic, battle-scarred members of the 100 Marathon Club; the people who ran marathons for fun 30 years ago and who still run them every weekend. Gina Little is to me what rockstars are to teenage girls, although I’m pretty sure I’m never going to get my hands on a poster of her.

The Moonlight Challenge represents to me very much the kind of runner I think – I have discovered, over the last eighteen months – that I am. A lap race that will reward you with a time and a distance regardless of how much you do but never honours winners, this would be my third attempt at finishing all five laps. I originally found it when I was looking for an ultramarathon to complete before my thirtieth birthday, and relying entirely on timing and accessibility from my home without taking into account the course, its inherent challenges or the history behind it. I got to marathon distance on the last two attempts and called it quits there, and for the third time I’m coming back with the idea of finishing it. And still, this is one I think I will be doing over and over again, regardless of whether I ever do finish it.

The race – regular readers will know – consists of a 6.55 mile lap around two farms in north Kent, very close to the coast and a light year away from any public transport, run up to five times to make 33 miles in total. Father of ultrarunning (to me, anyway) Mike Inkster runs the event with help from friends, family, and the hardy souls from Thanet Roadrunners, and also hosts the 24 Hour Challenge and the 50 Mile Challenge on the same course. It’s difficult to explain what it is about this race that keeps drawing me back. It’s not breathtaking views necessarily, partly because it takes place overnight and partly because there’s only so much Kent countryside you can get excited about. The lap repeats are mentally challenging, but there aren’t any killer hills, suicidal terrain or obstacles to conquer on the course. You won’t get much kudos from your workmates because it’s not well known enough for them to be able to quantify what you’ve done, and even seasoned ultra and trail runners will wonder what’s so remarkable about  33 miles in the mud, in the dark, beside a motorway. For the third time now my vocabulary has fallen short of the descriptive powers needed to explain this race. I just know it’s the one I know will always be in my calendar, come what may.

FullSizeRender (10)

The first time I attempted it poor preparation, lack of experience or trail shoes (or fitness) and a total failure to appreciate its difficulty were what eventually did me in, four laps and a marathon distance in. It stood as only my second ever marathon, first ever trail or overnight run, and the first time I ever even saw gaiters (now a staple of my trail running kit). It was also a year of particularly bad flooding in the area and the mud was halfway up my calves in many places. During that six hours and forty five minutes I learned how important it was to have lugs on your shoes, how moving faster means less likelihood of sinking into the porridgey mud, how far you can subsist on just a fragment of human interaction (for which read: conversation is better than headphones) and how little that timing actually matters when you get down to it. I also learned that however many excuses you find for giving up, ultimately, the only force that made you give up was you.

The second time I was around a stone and a half lighter, much fitter and seven marathons more experienced. I had trail shoes, determination and thighs of steel; what I didn’t have, however, was a headtorch. After just two laps I bottled it, and was on the point of packing it in altogether when another runner kindly offered me their spare. Nonetheless the loaner torch only got me round two more laps of an uncharacteristically moonless night and thick fog, and my nerves overpowered my legs. If I ever wanted to finish all five laps I’d have to come back for another go.

So this was it – attempt number three. Supposed to be lucky, although I’m long past relying on good luck charms and superstition. It was me that chose to quit a race I was perfectly fit and able to complete, it was my brain that short circuited in the face of profound darkness and hallucinations, and it would be my brain and my body that would get me to the end when – not if, when – I eventually did. What’s more, I was more aware of my capability this time, and with such a small field there was a strong chance not just of my getting to the end, but getting there as first lady. All I had to do was all I ever do – float on.

FullSizeRender (11)

And then I told my body to try and follow a new, regulated training plan for the London Marathon in the hope of getting sub 3:30. Longer midweek runs, more roads, a new stressful job and less rest than I’ve ever subsisted on (with or without running in the equation). My awesome body, who just three months ago I was praising for its achievements at Druids and for the first time in thirty-one years showing a shred of appreciation for, my body was now cowed like an abused dog with its tail between its legs, accepting punishment from its odious master and still timidly wagging its tail in the hope of a pat instead of a wallop. Surprise surprise, two weeks before the race my right knee went boom and the training plan had to go in the bin.

So I’d dealt with my lack of fitness for the event, my psychological capacity, and now for the first time I was facing injury – a revolting list of excuses. There was no point in finding blame or beating myself up further though; I had to rest, give my legs as much TLC as I could afford and hope that they’d make it through. After all that, what a horribly ungrateful way to treat myself. I couldn’t even give the mangy old mutt a proper day off because of my work timetable, but I could at least treat it to a foam roller and a bath every now and again. The question was, would it be too little too late?

Uncharacteristically for me, the moment my knee went pop I let go of the anxiety about racing or winning and took a more fatalistic approach; I would crawl round the course if I had to, but anything I had no control over wasn’t worth worrying about. Then Andy reminded me of something else I relied on my right knee for, which is the two hour drive there and back. Ah. That would be a problem. I put it out of my mind to begin with, but the day drew closer and my knee showed no signs of loosening up. Stubbornly limping to the finish is one thing; driving into the central reservation of the M20 because my knee wouldn’t bend is quite another. And then 24 hours out my guardian angel swooped to the rescue in the form of Team Mum; at a loose end on a Saturday night, apparently quite happy to spend six hours sitting in a freezing cold barn in Kent, waiting to drive me home if my knee didn’t want to. What are mums for, eh?

So there we are, greeting the Challenge Hubs regulars and catching up over frozen fingers and hot coffee. It felt like a reunion, reminiscing on past challenges and filling in the gaps of the intervening year; we even bumped into one of Team Mum’s Petts Wood Runners clubmates Jerry, and took a moment to admire each other’s Dirty Girl gaiters. I was among familiars, in an environment that felt secure to me despite the Arctic winds and pitch blackness, and I couldn’t wait to get going. Then it hit me – this is why I come back to the same event every year. Bugger the result or the time; it’s more like a holiday camp than a race. OK, so the weather’s diabolical and there’s no running water and three layers still isn’t enough to ward off frostbite and you end up with either trenchfoot or blisters, but you also come back with stories, smiles, another bunch of people to look out for next year.

IMG_5945

In fact I was gossiping so much I almost forgot to get changed and marched out towards the start still wearing joggers and a puffer jacket. Which would have been a shame, considering the efforts I went to to make sure every single element of my outfit clashed. The first time I ran it I was in head to toe black and hoping to slink into the background, until I begrudgingly accepted a loan of Mum’s neon yellow waterproof. Now I knew the importance of being seen as well as being able to see – from a practical point of view I’d rather know passing trains, marshals and emergency services can spot me among the waist high rushes, but there’s also a huge psychological advantage to peacocking. Also, bright pink compression socks rock.

The first lap passed comfortably; not just I’m-psyching-out-the-opposition-by-pretending-to-be-comfortable, actually comfortable. Taking a nice steady pace my knee was happy, my brain was reassured by the double torch approach and my legs were raring to get out after nearly two months since my last marathon. Had I finally cracked it? I certainly wasn’t going to crack it by getting all cocky about it so I tootled along merrily, chatting to anyone who passed me and trying not to push it too hard. Six and a half miles later I pulled into the barn as the first lady to finish the first lap. Not want to lose momentum or the lovely little rhythm I’d found I made sure my number was taken, got my good luck hug from Team Mum and went straight back out. I felt absolutely in control.

Second time out and I still felt pretty comfy, possibly a little too much so: let’s not give up an easy lead simply through laziness, I thought. About halfway through I came across two members of Rebel Runners in their black and bright green vests, one of whom was the only other lady who seemed to be running in the same lap as me. Eager by now for a bit of company I chatted to her for a bit, and discovered that she had only recently begun running to raise money for charity after her son contracted leukaemia, and today would be her first ever ultra and only her third ever marathon. She had a choppy but efficient and very natural stride for someone who hadn’t been running long, and towards the end of the lap I actually began to struggle to keep up with her. Preferring the controlled approach and constantly wary of my knee I hung back, drawing into the barn only a minute or so after her. I was a little cautious of her speed and of losing position, but more than that I was actually disappointed to lose my conversation buddy.

Again I avoided seizing up by stopping only to pick up a handful of sweet treats – possibly they were fig rolls, although they could have been beer mats dipped in sugar for all I knew – went to get my good luck hug from Team Mum, and off- wait. Where was Team Mum? Not by our seats, or outside the barn by the car, or sitting at one of the picnic tables. I looked around frantically. I’m not superstitious by any stretch of the imagination, but I didn’t much like the idea of going out without my good luck hug. I turned to Julie at the registration desk to ask if she’d seen my mum – she’s as well known at Challenge Hub events now as I am, if not more so – and as she raised her head from the list of entrants to reply I spotted a familiar pair of specs and Cheshire Cat grin.

“Right. You’re working the desk now.”

“Yeah! Thought I’d help out.”

Of course you did.

During the third lap I kept an eye out for the Rebel Runners, assuming they’d be only a little ahead of me, but there was no sign. Bollocks, I thought, they must have stolen a march. Oh well, I’m not meant to be racing anyway. I plodded along carefully, humming along to myself and resisting the urge to take out the iPod. By now my legs were tiring slightly but not so much that my form was dropping – all I had to do was keep the steady pace up. Then, about halfway through, I felt an odd sensation in my right knee – not pain, there was no explosion and seizing up like last time. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it; it just felt as though my knee had started to drift away from the rest of my body, as of no longer attached but simply floating away in an ever widening orbit. A little further along the feeling had passed, but it was pretty ominous.

The sound of a familiar chatter distracted me from any knee-induced panic attacks; just over my right shoulder, trotting resolutely along, the Rebels. No wonder I couldn’t see them up ahead of me; apparently they’d taken an extended stop after the second lap to take a group photo and were just catching up. I kept up with them until the end of the third lap, the increased pace at the time shaking out the instability in my knee and we entered the barn together. Maybe the tortoise would beat the hare after all?

I took a bit of a break this time, ate a bit more sugar coated sugar, chatted to Team Mum and stretched out my thigh. I was over halfway through now and making good time – I didn’t want to ruin it for the sake of a few minutes. Even with my break I still left the barn well before the Rebels and plunged on for lap four, rejuvenated but wary. The first section of the lap was the only real mudbath, but as mudbaths go it was a doozy. The mud was sticky like clay and at the same time had the foot-sucking properties of custard. I could dip and dive through it quite happily with the enormous lugs on my Fellraisers, but it meant that the lugs remained clogged for the rest of lap since no amount of stamping would loosen them. It was so bad that one of the marshal’s cars had to be towed out with one of the tractors from the barn. But, it was perfect dodgy-knee ground.

Still way ahead of the Rebels I ploughed on, keeping as even a pace as I could manage and making the best of the fact that I didn’t need to stop. Of course it would be too good to be true. About a third of the way in my kneecap came out of orbit and fell to earth with a bang. Pain I can deal with, but as I persevered with it the joint grew stiffer and stiffer until I could barely bend it at all, and that’s kind of its main job while running. Fuck it. The last four miles had to be taken at a walk, and an increasingly slow one at that, as my body temperature dropped and squally showers closed in. Which is why you always carry an extra layer, even on a short lap.

I called Andy, looking for a bit of moral support but knowing what I’d actually get was the dose of common sense I’d need before I persuaded myself “t’is but a flesh wound” and limped on. Even so, the Rebels didn’t catch me up until about two miles to go but once they shot past me, only getting stronger by the step, I had to admit defeat. With the London Marathon only a couple of months away there was no point in hobbling around another six and half miles and inflicting further damage on the knee. I wasn’t even that angry about not finishing for the third time – I was still almost an hour ahead of the next lady to finish a marathon distance and would probably have finished five laps at the same time as the two Rebel Runners even if I’d walked the rest of the way. I just accepted my certificate with a time of 5:30 for 26.5 miles, and started planning for next year. And bless Team Mum, she didn’t even bat an eyelid.

Since then my fatalistic outlook has taken something of a blow; nearly a month on, and I’m still gingerly trotting a maximum of ten miles on hard ground before that orbit feeling comes back and I need to rest again. I’ve put on about half a stone too because my appetite isn’t quite in step with my decreased activity levels yet. This is the bit I don’t find it so easy to talk about. Recovering from injury – especially a less serious one like this, one that came from overuse and can only be cured by rest – you can learn about from any number of sports science books, blogs and personal accounts, copies of Runner’s World, or better still with help from a professional physio. The psychological effects however, though more commonly confronted now than they ever used to be, are complex, varied and unique. Cross-training, keeping in touch with clubmates and getting involved in a non-running capacity all help keep me feeling in touch; the problem is I’ve started to reject this friendly interaction simply because I’m so pissed off with myself, which turns to envy and self-loathing, which festers and chafes and frets away at my self-esteem – what’s more, without the streak to keep up I’m at a loss for motivation to run even if I wasn’t crocked. I mean, it’s such a dumbass way to get injured. Every running magazine I have has an article on how to avoid injury and every single one – Every. Single. One. – says don’t increase intensity and mileage at the same time, or do one or the other too quickly. Basically, trying too hard to take control brought back that most classic of neuroses; my fear of losing control.

So I’ve had nearly a month to chew it over – in other words, nearly a month to procrastinate, to put off writing up this report, to rest and eat instead of refuel – and finally I’ve worked out what to take away from the experience. Feeling in control is so much more than the sum of its parts. It’s less to do with keeping my calorific intake regulated by attuning myself to the sensations of hunger and fullness, and more to do with not caring so much about the numbers that I feel compelled to cheat them. It’s less to do with rigidly following a training plan come what may and more to do with trusting your physiological responses. It’s less about doing what you’re told you ought to and more about doing what you feel is right. Because none of this is news to me; I got this far by listening to my body and never put a foot wrong. My body, which never let me down before, still hasn’t.

On a more positive note, the experience also gave me the vocabulary to really explain why I come back to the Challenge Hub races time and time again. You could point to the fact that there’s often a small field and no pressure, to the reasonable priced entry, unique challenges and friendly faces, but above all the familiarity of them has become a form of meditation to me. No matter where I race or what my goal is, the Moonlight Challenge represents to me now a sort of reset button. I’m ready to stop worrying about being in control, and start being in control.

North Downs Way 100 2015

Standard

On the right day, in the right circumstances, 100 miles is nothing and yet 10 miles is the longest distance in the world.

An ex boss once gave me a piece of advice that didn’t quite sit right with me: “Never admit you don’t know what you’re doing; just wing it and pretend to be confident.” That’s not an unusual piece of advice to be fair, certainly not to anyone with ambition. I disagree with it though; I think ambition is defined by more than just bullshitting your way out of any situation, I think it’s judging your limits and then pushing as far beyond them as you can bear. Then having a bit of a rest and a slice of cake. Kind of like interval training.

Needless to say I didn’t take the career advice at face value, but I did carry on pushing myself out of my comfort zone, responding to setbacks with my usual cheerful candour, and never pretending I had something in control when I didn’t; sometimes, painfully obviously so. It’s not a tactic that always pans out well, and consequently I’m not scaling the great career heights that some of my contemporaries are, but I know that when I do succeed I’ll have done it on my own terms.

I know that my approach to management tends to put people on the back foot; they’re not expecting candour, they’re expecting absolute control. My job usually means coordinating a number of total strangers from different trades, none of which I excel in myself, to make sure an artistic vision is achieved on time, on budget, as safely as possible and exactly as designed. Many experienced production managers I know would agree with that piece of advice, because much of the job is PR rather than technicianship, and because no matter how good you are at your job you won’t get much chance to do it if the artistic team doesn’t have full confidence in you. You never say “I don’t know”; you say “I’ll find out” or “Yes, definitely.” That’s just the way it is.

It doesn’t stop me taking on challenges, mind you; I just don’t go into those challenges acting as though nothing could go wrong. On the contrary, I spend every waking minute thinking four or five steps ahead at every possibility, planning for the worst and hoping for the best, and every sleeping minute having horrific anxiety dreams. It’s a tiring, arse-backwards and entirely inefficient way to conduct my business, but I get it done. And, I now realise, it’s how I’ve conducted my running career so far as well.

It is the approach that lined up my calendar for July and August 2015 thus:

Sunday 19th July: Run 50 Mile Challenge; at closer to fifty-three, fourteen miles longer than any continuous run I’ve ever done before. Also my qualifying race for the NDW100, as rules state you must have completed a 50 miler before being allowed to compete.

Monday 20th July – Saturday 1st August: Thirteen straight days of work, each starting at 8am and finishing anywhere between 7pm and 1am the next day. Usually a fair bit of shouting. Not always me.

Sunday 2nd August: Run Vanguard Way Marathon, persuaded to sign up at the eleventh hour because no reason. Being out in the sunshine on my one day off from a dark room seemed like a good idea at the time.

Monday 3rd – Thursday 6th August: Back to work on normal hours. Possibly including a very messy press night party and a lot of espresso martinis.

Friday 7th August: Oh shit oh shit oh shit pack bags…

And so I found myself in Farnham, back at the same hotel Cat and I had stayed in for the Pilgrim’s Challenge, eating the same calzone at the same Pizza Express, and trying not to think about the alarm set for 4am on Saturday 8th August.

Becky and Russell, two other Chasers who were also preparing for their first 100 miler, were staying in the same hotel and I caught up with them as I left registration. We had fellow Chasers poised to join us at the 50 mile checkpoint and pace the rest of the way; for me that would be Alex (Albro) who gave up a Less Than Jake ticket to come and who had been learning songs to sing to me and keep me company. Solid gold.

I met Becky and Russell in the reception at 4.45am the next morning, ready for the mile long stomp to the race HQ. We were a vibrant, sparkling bundle of positive energy and happy thoughts- no, sorry, I couldn’t even finish that sentence. We were not that. We were three very bleary-eyed people, slightly mushy of brain and furry of tongue, and always on the lookout for a loo. So, average runners on raceday morning.

IMG_5129

This was not the first attempt at a group selfie…

I’ll be honest, I wasn’t at all worried about the distance at this stage. I thought I was prepared, deep in the darkest recesses of my mind, for the possibility that I wouldn’t finish it, but as a thing I couldn’t affect in advance it was right down at the bottom of the list of things I was worried about. I was worried about the warm weather forecast, about the fact that I’d got it into my head to try for a 24 hour finish even though I knew that was a stupid idea, about hallucinating in the dark and about getting lost in Kent. But not about the distance. Just break it down to the chunks between checkpoints, and eat like a horse after a hunger strike.

It took a couple of miles over singletrack before the pack started to thin out; a blessing in disguise really, as it meant that I could stay with Becky and Russell for a bit longer and not be tempted to go too fast. It couldn’t last though; Becky was bouncing up the hills like an ibex even as everyone else was already taking the opportunity for a walk break, and Russell’s seven league strides were too much for me to keep up with so I let them go on and tried to resist the temptation to race. Besides, half the fun is finding new people to make friends with.

And so, the familiar stretch from Guildford through Box Hill and on to Merstham was given a whole new complexion through my chats with a runner called Ilsuk Han, a calm and kindly Centurion regular doing his second 100 miler and first North Downs Way. We had the same average pace for much of that section, but with his steady rhythm and my uphill plods and downhill cartwheels we crossed over here and there and mostly only stayed together on the flats. His running stories were encouraging and the Box Hill/Denbies rollercoaster passed almost without notice, compared with the vessel bursting effort on the same stretch back in February; although, to be fair, it’s a lot easier when the ground is solid rather than porridgey, glutinous mud. I think – I hope – my docker’s vernacular made him laugh more than it did blush, and I hope he knows that his patience and kindness made twenty miles feel like two. I’ve proselytised before about the inspiration I find in the strangers I run with, and I’m grateful for the stories I’m able to collect along the way.

So it was a shame that I eventually had to let him go too – he was on course for a comfortable sub-24 which he absolutely nailed, and I had started to feel time slip away from that target – and find a new stretch of trail to make friends with. The iPod stayed in my pocket, and my soundtrack was my thoughts. The first time I felt any sort of discomfort was the Caterham aid station, but a pause and a change of socks sorted that right out. It occurred to me that it was a little early to be feeling tight muscles and tired legs, but then I had enough experience under my belt to know that discomfort and pain comes in waves not a linear progression, and before long the niggles were shaken out and I was back into a happy rhythm.

IMG_5136

From that point on the route recces I had done started to pay for themselves; unbelievably, given my track record, I didn’t get lost once. The section that hands over from Surrey to Kent is notable by the beautifully carved signpost, farmlands, and sudden absence of obvious signage (or, more accurately, sudden profligate overgrowth of the trees covering the fingerposts) but I found the familiar twists and turns with relative ease. By this stage I was doing my “old lady trot” as Katherine would put it, keeping a steady turnover with minimal impact, and taking tactical walk breaks any time I approached cows and baby cows, which was lots. I love animals, including cows, but being a thing that moves fast and is usually brightly coloured I’m very careful not to startle them and cause a stampede. A metric ton of stupid hurtling towards me would be a bollocks way to DNF.

IMG_5137

The last few miles to Knockholt and the fifty-mile mark – the point where I could pick up some hot food, my pacer Alex and a change of shoes – seemed to take hours. ACTUAL hours. It was a section I had tested part of (except for the detour to the aid station which represented the only variation from the official North Downs Way) so I should have known exactly how long it was, but being full of handovers from field to identical field I found myself expecting to be at the end about twelve times over, and without my Garmin on to tell me my mileage my sense of scale was all out of whack. I’m sure it can’t have been as bad as I thought it was, but it made me realise how crucial the recces had been for me from a psychological rather than physical point of view. Finally, finding the road to the aid station and seeing Team Chasers hanging over the rail hoping to catch sight of me, I put on a sprint and basically dived into the hall.

me at 50 miles

When I got there Becky had very recently left, but Russell was still slumped in a chair despite having reached the checkpoint an hour earlier. He looked peaky, and had had a little nap already, notwithstanding the efforts of pacer Frankie and the exuberant marshal cajoling all the runners to get moving as soon as possible. Whether it was simply relief at reaching the aid station, joy at seeing my friends again or the prospect of hot food and cold shoes, I felt as strong as I’d felt all day, if not stronger. I charged up my phone with the block I left in my drop bag, changed into my QPR top and topped up with Lucozade. Between the marshal, the fear of cramping up and the desire to bloody finish, I wanted to get out of the door as soon as possible and on the way.

While I was sorting myself out Albro brought me a plate of cheesy pasta and bolognese; delicious, as far as my ruined tastebuds could tell, and the perfect antidote to energy bars. Or so I thought. In retrospect, taking a rest at the one aid station with a roof and facilities would have been the sensible long term plan, not to mention letting my dinner go down before getting back on the road. Bloody hell, my mum taught me to do that when I was two years old. And yet, at thirty one I somehow forgot that most basic piece of dietary advice, and jumped straight back on the road. And immediately suffered what Runners World delicately calls “gastric distress”.

I’m not going to get obscene on you here; “distress” is very much the operative word. The simple (obvious) mistake of failing to wait for my dinner to go down resulted in excruciating pain and nausea like I’ve never experienced. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure I’d have been fine had I waited fifteen more minutes at Knockholt, but not doing so meant an agonizingly slow ten miles to the next checkpoint, stopping every now and again to suppress the urge to throw up or pass out. Maybe throwing up would have sorted me out – it’s certainly not unknown for ultrarunners to metaphorically wake up after a technicolour yawn – but in my delirium I was terrified of the prospect of vomiting and resisted it with all my strength, to the detriment of my ability to run. The ten mile stretch to the next checkpoint took three hours.

Three hours, during which time I didn’t eat a single thing and barely managed to keep down even Lucozade. I know that pacers know what they’re letting themselves in for, but even so it must have been a miserable three hours for Albro and yet he kept a brave face and a bouncy step all the way, singing songs with me and patiently waiting for me to pick myself up every time I doubled over. How had I gone from strong and sprightly to barely able to move in such a short distance? I think my inability to rationalise it crushed me as much as the physical effect did. No blisters, no muscle or joint problems, no sunstroke, no broken bones. I just ran out of gas.

The worst of it was, I didn’t really understand what had happened to me until the Wrotham checkpoint by which time it was too late to recover. I tried vainly to send down a few pieces of fruit and half a cup of coffee, which picked me up enough for the next stretch; at just five and a half miles, I couldn’t not have a go. But it was too little, too late. I savoured the fruit and the milky coffee – even more so as the aid station’s portable stove caught fire just minutes after Alex brought me my cup and put paid to anyone else’s intentions on a hot drink – but their calories were spent before I reached the end of the road.

Maybe it was psychosomatic; maybe I just needed to give myself a talking to. We’d only just hit sundown, a watershed I hadn’t been looking forward to, but the fear of darkness was as nothing to me as my desire to rip out my stomach and be done with the troublesome bloody thing. I could manage five and half miles on my hands and knees, I told myself, and being mostly hill and scrub I pretty much had to. Albro kept my spirits up and my mind sharp by asking me riddles; I remember really clearly one being about a man in darkness which for some reason scared the crap out of me, and it was one of the few that totally stumped me. At least the views, lit by only a headtorch and a hint of moonlight, were unforgettable. I don’t think a photo can really do justice to how stunning the M25, enveloped by countryside, really looked that night.

I have no memory of approaching the checkpoint at Holly Hill; I do remember flumping into a fold out chair underneath a gazebo, allowing Albro to put a cup of coffee into my shaking hands, and realising then that I simply had nothing left to give. I bargained with myself for a bit: if I sit down for five or ten minutes I might feel better, then I can make a decision; if another runner comes in looking worse than me and still carries on then I have to as well; if I get Albro’s next riddle right… It was all bullshit though, I knew that. The next aid station was another ten miles away; had it been five or six again I told myself I would have tried to limp on, but deep down I knew there was no fuel in the tank. It’s a really demoralising way to crash out. No heroic injury to battle against, no disaster or calamity or defining moment to cling on to. It didn’t feel like hitting a brick wall; more like falling into warm marshmallow, sinking further and further and eventually suffocating to death.

Apparently I was slurring like a drunk and hypoglycaemic, although I remember being pretty lucid, which I hope was at least funny to watch. I gave my number to the marshal and waved my white flag… and then I had to do the really heartwrenching bit, forcing Andy out of our warm bed in the middle of the night to make the hour and a half drive and pick us up. The nausea and pain had started to abate by this stage, so we waited patiently (Albro) and miserably (me) for our lift, watching the other runners pass through the checkpoint. I wasn’t the only dropout at that station – by the end of the race there was around a forty percent DNF rate overall, which was both sort of comforting and incredibly depressing – so the kindly nurse had his hands full. After over an hour of waiting, during which time I’d been huddled up in my foil blanket and dry spare clothes (as prescribed by the mandatory checklist, thank fuck) the vague feeling of tiredness and gluey mouth gave way to a wave of intense nausea, nausea like being in a lurching taxi after five Jagerbombs, a spinning head and a loss of control in all my limbs. Everything went black. This was the moment I’d been dreading, fighting for nearly six hours. I’m terrified of being sick; I can’t deal with it at all, much less when there’s nothing there to be sick with. I started to panic, crawled over to one side – what I thought was one side, until the nurse caught me and steered me towards some bushes – and collapsed. Two cups of coffee and some bits of apple. And as if the last six hours hadn’t happened, I was absolutely fine again.

I started to pick up physically, but all that did was make me feel even more stupid for not allowing myself to be sick earlier and getting it over and done with, so I could eat and carry on. Albro was keeping up with the reports on Russell, who was also struggling to eat but after a tactical chunder kept himself going on sugary tea. Eventually he was able to overtake Becky and make his sub-24 hour target; an astonishing enough achievement for someone on their first 100 miler, never mind following that up with a 36 mile navigation race in the Lake District three weeks later. Becky herself had slowed down but ploughed doggedly on and completed in 28 hours, her sunny smile breaking through the morning fog. I was so happy for both of them, and at the same time completely crushed that I couldn’t share that triumph.

The drive home, the few hours’ sleep, the drive all the way to Wye and back the next day to pick up my finish line bag, all were conducted in a self-pitying, graceless torpor. All I could hear in my head was the voice of the marshal asking if I was sure about pulling out, telling me how much worse I’d feel if I didn’t try and carry on. It wasn’t even about feeling physically bad; it was feeling as though I’d let Alex and Andy down, two people who gave up their weekends to support me only for me to give up two-thirds of the way in, and as though I’d let the Chasers down, registering a DNF against the club’s otherwise stellar reputation. And then the car broke down.

I’m writing this four weeks on, and I still haven’t fully pulled myself together. Going out for social runs with Chasers and with other running friends is tough, because being reminded not just of the race but of running in general feels like being reminded of my failure. I force myself out of the door because indulging in Eeyore-y moping is both counter-productive and utterly selfish. Not to mention a kick in the teeth to anyone who would give their right leg to be able to run sixty six miles, as I was sharply reminded by my non-runner mates when I rebuffed their congratulations. They’re right; I am behaving like a petulant dickbag. I will snap out of it eventually. I will appreciate what I achieved; technically a distance PB, a pretty respectable 50 mile split, nearly two and a half marathons back to back. It’s not the achievement I set out to get, but as Mick Jagger once said, you don’t always get what you want.

I read a quote recently that goes “Success is measured by the difference between your goal and your performance.” By that metric, I have every right to be all maudlin and emo about my DNF. Then again, I have to confront the fact that either my goals were unrealistic or my performance was well below standard. One way or the other, there’s no chance of me redeeming myself without accepting my shortfalls and examining how to address them, applying the effort to do so and preparing myself for setbacks. In other words, I’ve been a hypocrite. I took on a challenge with my fake confidence and shit-eating grin and expected to brazen my way out of it. Doubling mileage in just three weeks? Trying to run 100 miles right after two straight weeks of no sleep? Sure, they’re excuses, but I should know better than that. I’m not superhuman.

Not yet, anyway. North Downs Way 100, I’ll be back for you next year.

IMG_5141

50 Mile Challenge 2015

Standard

When I tackled the 50 Mile Challenge last year, it was my second attempt at completing an ultramarathon. I met a man who revived my love of running by teaching me to share the experience with your fellow runners, I discovered that rain won’t melt you, and that it’s always handy to keep a change of shoes, and why Jack Kerouac was such an inspiration to Jenn Shelton. And I made it round 39.3 triumphant miles of the course before throwing in the (very muddy) towel. I hadn’t run further than that in one go since.

Last year, mum and I had stayed in a Travelodge about 20 mins drive away from the race start, being as it is in the middle of nowhere, but when we drove down on the Saturday evening to register and pick up my race pack spotted a couple of tents and sleeping bags and realised just what a trick we’d missed. This time we came prepared for a campfire and a sing song, and it was absolutely the right decision; even more so when we discovered there was space in the dry, cosy barn for us to pitch our tents rather than the rocky ground outside. We planned down to the last detail, each of us with specific responsibilities to make sure we had dinner, entertainment and lodgings covered between us. Mum was in charge of cooking implements. She brought wine, but forgot cutlery. I knew then it would be an awesome evening.

50MC 2

It was comforting enough to know I’d be right there for the 6am start the next morning, but it also meant we got to have a good old chat and a game of cards with the other campers: Julie and Derren, both of whom are regular fixtures at Challenge Hub races; Mal, who was attempting to do the whole race dragging a tire behind him; and Emma, who had come all the way from Staffordshire for her first ultramarathon. We cooked up a huge pot of cheese and broccoli pasta on mum’s portable stove, which we ate with some scavenged plastic spoon and a bit of twig, then taught everyone how to play Shithead, fuelled by mum’s interminable supply of chocolate nuts and raisins, before retiring to the pitch darkness of our tents. Camping has never been high on my list of things that are fun, but for a low key race in a low key setting it was the perfect preparation. And at least it wasn’t a fucking Travelodge.

50MC 3

Sleeping in a pitch black barn, on a quick build campbed (bought after discovering how cold sleeping on the floor is during the Pilgrim’s Challenge), ended up being one of the best night’s sleep I’ve ever had pre-race. I’ve got to the point now where I just give up any hope of sleeping the night before either through nerves or circumstance, but I honestly couldn’t have got a more satisfying forty winks if I’d been sleeping on clouds and happy thoughts. And so obviously I was in a hideously good mood come 5am the following morning; and for once, on time.

Lovely Mike Inkster gave his legendary pre-race speech as we shuffled around excitably, starting with the phrase “Don’t worry about the distance,” which is pretty much the best piece of advice any ultrarunner will ever get, and off we went. I fell in step with Emma and another lady called Gillian, all three of us doing our first 50 miler, and we promised to stay together for as long as possible to make sure each of us got to the end.

One of the things I love most about ultra running – especially Challenge Hub races – is just how sociable it is. It’s a huge part of the reason why I go back to these races time and time again; these races that make no sense, that push your muscles to melting point and turn your feet to pools of mush, and yet leave me musing on the mental challenges more than the physical, worrying about how I will keep my mind from fraying long after I stopped caring about the effect of fifty miles on my body. I learned in past races how much easier it is to have someone else to run with, and how important it is to switch off the iPod just when you’d think you need it most. It definitely helps when the people you are running with happen to be among the most inspirational people you will ever meet, and it’s not coincidence that the people you meet during ultras often are.

50MC 8

Emma, a petite and cheerful young lady from Lichfield with nothing more high tech than her club vest and a pair of basic running shoes, was relatively new to running. She told us how she loved taking herself off for long runs with no idea of how far she was planning to go; just to keep going until she knew she was done. In fact, she couldn’t even say for certain how far her longest run had been prior to the 50 Mile Challenge, although it must have been in the region of thirty or so miles. Her kit was the barest minimum of what it needed to be, and her soundtrack was her thoughts. At the beginning she asked to run with us in order to make sure she kept her speed under control as she had no idea how to pace herself, but within a couple of laps it became obvious she had nothing to worry about, as she left us in the dust. All I saw of her from that point on was a beaming smile as we crossed over halfway through my lap 6 and her lap 7, a genuine smile which came from the bottom of her boots. She is someone to whom running is the most natural thing in the world.

me and Emma

Photo courtesy of Challenge Hub

My companion for the rest of the way was equally inspirational, but the polar opposite in technical terms. Gillian, also on her first 50 miler, was a 3.15 marathoner and wife of an ex-competitive triathlete, and she was a lady with a plan and a super-disciplined crew to back it up. Her husband, sister-in-law and brother-in-law were all on hand at roughly the halfway point of the course with an SUV stocked full of different kinds of food, plus a portable fridge freezer for cold drinks and ice pops and probably the kitchen sink too, and they even paced sections of the lap towards the end of the race. Having been her husband’s crew for years, she knew how to put them to good use and he, being an elite athlete, knew exactly what was needed before even we did. Crewing at that level is practically an art form.

I was prepared for the fact that we’d see all four seasons over the course of the next twelve hours, and we didn’t get much more than a couple of laps in before the heavens opened and the waterproofs came out. It didn’t matter really; it helped soften the sunbeaten ground, washed the sweat from my skin and the mud from my legs, and kept my body temperature under control for just a little longer than I had any right to hope. The rest of the day was forecast to be very hot with odd bursts of showers, which is actually quite a nice way to spend a whole day outdoors; just as you get sick of one extreme the other steps in with a reprieve. It wasn’t quite so nice for the supporters though and my poor Team Mum went from arctic survivalist to jungle explorer with a costume change and a different kind of drink at the end of each lap. Mike Inkster joked that he was considering changing the name to the Lobster Challenge: “First we drench you, then we boil you!”

I knew it was suicide to spend too much time comparing each stage of the race with how I felt last year – it’s suicide to compare how you feel at any one time with how you felt ten seconds ago – but every now and again a systems check told me I was still on course to finish and finish strong, which is all I needed to do, and maybe even keep in touch with Gillian until the end. The race was my qualifier for the North Downs Way 100, which would take place just three weeks later and on the other side of a high profile project at work. I’m pretty sure that when the NDW100 organisers stipulated all runners needed to have finished at least a 50 mile race before being allowed to compete they had something less ambitious than three weeks to double mileage in mind, but I couldn’t think about that. All I had to think about was getting to the end. And the best way to do that was not to think about it.

Chatting to Gillian, I’m even more certain in retrospect, got me through the race. I didn’t have time to register niggles or allow doubt to creep in or grow impatient or grumpy. We inadvertently started to mark parts of the course, finding bits we liked and bits we didn’t and breaking each lap down to manageable chunks. It was an unexpected advantage to lap racing, normally a form of psychological torture, and because we were chatting so much we even came across sections we didn’t recognise, despite having run them four or five times already. I liked going past the mummy swan with her nest of cygnets who hissed at us every time we ran by, and Gillian looked forward to the house with the windmill, partly because it signified the home stretch and partly because windmills are bloody cool. And obviously, we both looked forward to seeing her crew and their amazing stock of chilled goodies at the halfway point.

team photo

Photo courtesy of Challenge Hub

Having been a runner and cyclist for many years Gillian was clearly in excellent shape with radiant complexion and obvious reserves of mental and physical strength, and to me, that’s the definition of beauty. A working mother of two, she is a role model for women everywhere as far as I can see; not in a “How does she do it all?” Sarah Jessica Parker sort of way, all ostentatious modesty and thinly veiled bullshit, but a clear example of how to balance the needs of a family with the needs of an individual – or rather, how fulfilling the needs of the individual can be crucial to the wellbeing of the family. And yet, she told me stories of her experience as a working mother and athlete which horrified me; being attacked by other (female) athletes for competing in races while pregnant, and then being ostracised by other new mothers for running to and from baby yoga to keep fit, all against a background of conflicting, often plainly erroneous medical advice. Why are we so terrified by the idea of new and expectant mothers indulging in exercise, especially when a sedentary lifestyle carries just as many hazards with a far higher likelihood? The horror stories did nothing for my faith in humanity, but bloody hell did they make the laps fly by. And they reaffirmed to me that truly extraordinary people are simply people who make the extraordinary ordinary.

And speaking of inspirational people, a Challenge Hub race wouldn’t be complete without Team Mum there to back me up. Lap races are a special kind of tough not least because every time you get to the end you have to start again, but having her there to push food into my hands, record my splits, make a general fuss and give me my lap end hug made it feel like I was simply starting a new race each time, without giving her a logistical headache. And as is customary, she did her Wonderwoman costume change for lap six and joined me and Gillian for the 6.6 mile loop, despite it being her furthest run since Brighton Marathon by a long way, and with a smile plastered to her face all the way round.

Well, most of the way round. Towards the end of the lap she started to flag, and with a mile to go I knew I had to push on while I still had the momentum in my legs. I didn’t want to leave her behind but I was still feeling too fresh to slow down and walk, and I knew that once I did my legs would turn to treacle. She was struggling, pausing for a break after every few steps, getting frustrated and resisting my attempts to keep moving. Asking her to keep up wasn’t fair, and having been on the other side I knew how crap it feels to be pushing just above your comfort pace on such a long run. Then again, I also know mum, because I know myself, and just like me I know that she can do anything she puts her mind to, but force her to do anything and it’s fuck you society. Lo and behold, when I reached the HQ a mile later she was less than half a minute behind me. Because mum can do anything she puts her mind to, and because fuck you society. I love her so much.

I had planned to give myself something to look forward to each lap after halfway for a little psychological boost. 5 was a change of shoes, 6 was mum pacing, 7 was a fresh vest, 8 I was hoping would be a reward in itself. Then I felt the dreaded bonk crash into me like a wave on Reculver beach, on the crossover between lap 7 and lap 8. For the first time I started to feel hotspots forming on my toes and had to change my socks to avoid blistering, but it was almost too late. Gillian was feeling strong and needed to carry on, but her brother in law kindly stayed behind to pace me for the final lap and off we plodded, watching Gillian and her husband put more and more distance between us. I was a little disappointed not to be able to keep up, but so happy to see Gillian with her game face on, going for the strong finish she deserved. I knew I couldn’t catch her now, and Emma was long gone, so I had to content myself with third lady and remember what I came here for in the first place. All I had to do was finish, and I would do it crawling if I had to.

It was a long lap, and a slow one. We chatted about football (he was a Leicester fan), and when I didn’t have the energy to run or even speak we trudged patiently on. Despite chat being the force that drove me through the first seven laps, his patient and quiet demeanour was probably the perfect company for that last six miles, when my energy had run out and all I wanted to do was finish. Finally we passed the windmill for the last time and rounded the corner to the farm, where the end of the lap fiendishly required runners to go past the exit and the shortcut to the barn, circumnavigate the outhouses and turn back to reach the checkpoint. I did this last little loop on my own, the better to enjoy the rush down the slope and crash into Team Mum’s arms at the end. I had done it. 53 – or something like it – miles in 10 hours 43 minutes.

50MC 7

Emma – looking a bit hot but otherwise much the same as she did at the start – had clinched the first lady spot by miles, finishing in just over nine hours pretty much as I was coming in for my final lap. Gillian was about twenty minutes ahead of me, and she and her team were there waiting to cheer me in at the end. We hadn’t managed to stay together until the end, but we’d certainly kept each other going. Only thirty five runners finished any distance, and of those just twenty four completed all eight laps. Emma had her name engraved on the winners’ shield but as is customary in Challenge Hub challenges there’s no prize on offer, no difference between coming first or last. You’re all in it for the same reason. And I’ll be back there next year for the same reason.

I forget sometimes that what I’ve achieved over the last couple of years is actually a bit extraordinary. I think of myself as someone with reasonable standards, but I still take for granted the leaps and bounds I’ve made in my running career – in distance, speed and general fitness – since I was that chubby girl who couldn’t quite make a quarter of a mile without pausing for breath. That was four years and three stone ago. My overwhelming feeling as I crossed the finish line of the 50 Mile Challenge this year was not so much pride at finishing, but pleasure at feeling relatively strong at the end of it – maybe not like I could run another fifty miles straightaway, but at least not afraid of another hundred in three weeks time.  Maybe I got cocky. Maybe that was my downfall…

50MC 9

Runaway bridezilla

Standard

Oh no. I’ve become what I always insisted I would never be. I’ve become a bridezilla.

I can’t stop talking about it; even when I try to change the subject, inevitably the discussion swerves back in that direction. It’s all about the outfit, the logistics, what we’re going to eat, what music to play, making sure everyone turns up on time and hoping someone will get a few decent photos. Everything has to go perfectly since I’m not planning to do it more than once – although, you never know. I’m already boring everyone stiff talking about it, and the event’s not until August.

There’s no wedding involved though, I hate weddings. No, I’m talking about a 100 mile race.

If you know me, you know my Evernote lists. Those things run my life; my main job to-do lists, my freelance job to-do lists, blog notes, race prep lists, holiday plans, they all go straight into little lists with pleasingly tickable tickboxes next to them. The list for the North Downs Way 100 gets a tweak every couple of days or so, and even when there isn’t anything to tweak I just gaze at it adoringly, as if looking at it is going to bring me closer to August. Like a bride-to-be poring over a mood board, magazines full of dresses and table settings, invitation samples and menus. Seriously, how do I still have friends?

Some of those patient, long-suffering friends actually have significant life events of their own to talk about, would you believe. You know, actual weddings, babies, mortgages and the like. And there’s me, able to tell you the date of any major trail or ultra race off the top of my head but completely stumped when to comes to my friend’s child’s birthday.

“It’s July, right? Or June? A summer month.”

“It was February, Jaz. You missed it.”

So I was a little reticent to follow Cat’s advice and put up a post asking for race pacers on the Chasers Facebook page; it’s a bit look-at-me, I thought, not to mention presumptuous to hope that anyone would give up their time to pace me. And by giving up their time, I don’t mean spending a sunny Sunday afternoon trolling around in the countryside. I can only have pacers after the 50 mile mark, which will take around 12 hours for me to reach, which means any potential support crew having to make their way to Nowheresville, Kent around suppertime and stick with me through the wee hours while I dribble on, sleep deprived and crotchety and demanding entertainment like a toddler on a sugar comedown.

Of course, I’d reckoned without the completely awesome and slightly barmy Chasers trail club. While I was toing and froing about whether or not to ask for help, they were already looking up crew access points and learning Queen songs to sing to keep my spirits up. A hundred miles is a pretty long way to run, and they understood that I would need help even if I was too proud or too nervous to ask for it, just like any friend would do. In retrospect, it’s a bit daft of me to worry about geeking out over a run with a load of running geeks. Not to mention the fact that the whole reason we know each other is our mutual interest in running really fucking long distances. 

I suppose the mistake I’d made was worrying about why my non-running friends would care about my running activities, any more than I care about what flowers are going in someone’s bridal bouquet or what consistency the crap their toddler did this morning was or how much fun they had at some hipster bar last night. Facebook has made every moment so public, everyone’s life is like a glossy magazine advert now. Yeah, sure it’s irritating to scroll through a news feed full of “LOOK HOW EXCITING MY LIFE IS!” but even though I try to keep my fanfaring to a minimum I’m as guilty of it as anyone. And yet, it’s not like anyone’s ever told me to shove my medal photos up my arse, not that I’d blame them if they did.

Because that’s what being a friend is all about, isn’t it? It doesn’t mean expecting them to care as much about your shit as you do; it’s about celebrating anything that is important in each other’s lives. What that thing is, whether it’s a significant event or an everyday moment, it’s not been posted to show off, or because people think you want to know about it; it’s been posted because they want to share their happiness with you, regardless of the source of that happiness. And it’s a privilege to know someone who wants to share their happiness with you, whether it’s “Look how many shots I drank!” or “Look how many miles I ran!”. Or, occasionally, both. 

So, yeah, I’m a bridezilla. I’ll try to keep my squee moments within the confines of decency, or at the very least, restrict my running geekery to my running geek friends, but every now and again you might see a photo of an outfit or an update about a cake tasting session. Humour me, mute my posts if you need to. Accept my apologies in advance. It’ll all be over in August. And then I’ll try to be a less shit friend.