Druids Challenge 2017 – the other side of the aid station

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It’s my favourite event of the year. Well, no – Eurovision is my favourite of all events, but Druids is top as far as races go. It’s not even the running bit that makes it, although the Ridgeway trail traces my heart like my own veins; it’s the camping overnight in school halls, eating Anna’s mum’s homemade cake, drinking endless cups of instant coffee and sleeping on an army cot in the frozen depths of November that I can’t wait for. File it in the Venn diagram of “things that make me feel like a kid”/”things only trail runners do”/”happy things”.

I ran it in 2015 and 2016, but had to hold off this year due to the fourth Centurion Grand Slam, the Wendover Woods 50, being only two weeks later. Honestly I’m not sure what upset me more: missing Druids or missing out on the suicide challenge of doing both, just for lols. Nonetheless, paranoid that the slightest intervention would scupper my chances of finishing the grand slam (spoiler alert) I opted to wrap myself in cotton wool, and just volunteer instead. Easy peasy.

The race covers almost the entire Ridgeway National Trail over three days: 29 miles on Friday, 27 on Saturday and 28 on Sunday. I couldn’t get the time off on Friday for the first leg from Ivinghoe Beacon to the school at Watlington so I missed out on the first night’s camping as well; on the other hand it had been a big week at work and a solid night’s sleep in my own damn bed was more of a novelty than camping, so I banked it. Car packed, I drove up to my first post at checkpoint two at the crack of dawn on Saturday, ready for action.

Being a production manager by trade, I had printed out every last scrap of information I could find, calculated how long it would take me to get to the checkpoint, gave myself a good margin of error and then set off slightly earlier than that. The instructions told me I was needed at the checkpoint an hour in advance of the runner expected to pass first, and that was half past nine, so there I was, at 08:27 (including a detour for a coffee and a loo stop so as not to seem too eager). And I waited.

And I waited.

I could be relatively certain that I was in the right place – I mean it’s probably the most memorable checkpoint in the whole three days – and my satnav wasn’t disagreeing. But the checkpoint chief, Edward, was nowhere to be seen. Tussling with the fear of posting a stupid question on the group Whatsapp I tried sending messages to both Edward and to Rich the volunteer coordinator, with no luck and no signal. By half past nine I was vacillating between panic that a hundred hungry runners were about to overwhelm me and certainty that it must be me that was wrong; after all, there were at least three other people that were meant to be there and still weren’t. Just as I was about to get my trail shoes on and start running backwards along the route, wondering if the checkpoint had moved, a car drove down the muddy lane to the water’s edge that obviously had nothing to do with fishermen or dog walking.

Out of Edward’s modest estate car a whole checkpoint unfolded – I mean this is Mary Poppin’s carpet bag territory. Two fold out tables, four barrels full of water, eight or nine boxes of food and supplies (including the all-important hand sanitiser), the timing kits, the ubiquitous XNRG feather banner and various other bits of signage. Joined by fellow volunteer Laura and her son we set up as quickly as possible and started doing the clock arithmetic for when we expected the first person to pass, proving once and for all that my calculations were way out. I offered to tick off race numbers and make sure all the runners checked their wristbands against the timer, thinking at least I couldn’t get that wrong.

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As is customary for day 2 of the Druids, especially the second stretch along the Thames, it was soggy. I tried to wipe my phone screen on my trousers to dry it off enough to use, and all that happened was that my phone screen got a different kind of wet on it. My numbers sheet actually got soaked while we were setting up and had to be laid across the car’s heating vents to dry off before we even got started; by the time we were halfway through the field I was marking fat splodges on papier mache with a mashed felt tip, literally counting down the chart to get the right number. It was like playing bingo in wet clay.

Considering the job involved standing outside in the rain without shelter for a number of hours (including the bonus ones I awarded myself) the time passed surprisingly quickly. Having to concentrate on the path and catch the runners before they took off up the road was definitely harder than being the runner concentrating on the path, something I know from previous experience on that course. I’ve given up on enough of my own races to know how annoying it is to let yourself down, but the thought of letting down another runner was really nerve-wracking. Meanwhile, a lone fisherman who was surprised to find us pitched up on the bank before him settled in at the rivers edge with his wolf (he claimed it was a dog) and patiently waited for the fish that our neon coloured, mud-thumping, giggling and panting runners were presumably scaring away. We learned an awful lot about riverside politics between rowers and kayakers, longboaters and swimmers, like a live-action version of The Wind In The Willows.

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The runners came through in various states of undress and humour; most notably a first time ultrarunner who came in wearing just one shoe, having lost the other in the mud (which wasn’t surprising as they turned out to be three sizes too small for him in the first place); the man who found a neat solution to our lack of sandwiches (two jaffa cakes with a slice of cheddar in the middle); and Marie-Claude, a lady who stumbled into the aid station in a bin bag and floods of tears, having optimistically followed the weather forecast and not the basic tenet of Druids which is that day two is always wet. Bless her, she was miserable. Her waterproofs were, helpfully, in her bag back at base. Her ankles were weighed down with a pair of hand knitted leg warmers, by now waterlogged and hefty with mud, and she was pining for her sturdy walking boots. She sobbed uncontrollably as we helped her into a chair and out of the leg warmers, and Edward managed to produce both hot water and a hot chocolate sachet from nowhere. It seemed like she was destined to pull out.

Those of you that know XNRG’s multi-day challenges probably know regular face Elaine, often patiently hiking each leg in twice the time of the frontrunners and always with a smile and good humour. We knew to look out for her as the last person expected through, making Marie-Claude the second from last according to the scraps of my sheet. After a last minute bit of foot dressing by Dr Laura and the lend of a waterproof jacket, it seemed that all that Marie was short of was the will to carry on – she was in perfectly good health otherwise. We managed to convince her that if she kept going she would eventually have company from Elaine, and since there were no cut-offs she had nothing but time. To her credit as soon as she was up on her feet she got straight on with it – a lesson in the power of appropriate kit and a bit of positive thinking. We all sympathised with her low moment, but we all know those moments pass much faster than the disappointment of a DNF. Not long afterward came Elaine, as smiling and beatific as ever. We had a bit of a chat with her as she loaded up on jaffa cakes and some of Laura’s homemade flapjacks, and off went the last of our intrepid explorers.

My next shift was back at the school manning the tea and cake stand. Yeah I know, what a hardship. Handing out tea and cake to people 56 miles in to the Ridgeway is a very gratifying job anyway – I mean, nobody’s exactly turning their nose up at free cake – but to ultra geeks like me it’s also a front row seat to the best show on earth, watching the likes of Edwina Sutton and Justin Montague do what they do best and barely break sweat in the process. And because I’m my mother’s daughter I had great fun buzzing around like a busybody and forcing tea into chilly hands.

And then the hard work began.

While Susie Chan and Rory Coleman delivered their after-supper presentations, we had to clear the canteen and set up for breakfast the following morning, as well as keep the hot drinks and cake flowing and the jerrycans full of water. I sort of knew, from previous experience, that the job would involve making sure these vital things were available as long as everyone was awake, but I hadn’t quite appreciated just how much 300 runners and walkers could get through – I don’t think I stopped moving until past 11pm, an hour after lights out. Straight into event mode, I fell into my cot bed feeling wonderfully weary and stared at the ceiling for five hours, too buzzed to sleep.

My alarm went off at half 5 just as I’d started to drift off, and by the time I got to the canteen the early risers on the first wave were already tucking in. The walkers were due to start at 7am but would need to be on the shuttle bus by half 6 in order to be taken to the restart point, on the exposed top of East Hendred Down. The well-oiled machine that is XNRG splits up the runners into groups according to their finishing times from day 2, which is crucial in making sure that there are enough seats on the shuttle buses to get everyone to the top – and naturally, everyone bargains to go in the middle group. Once again I saw the wider context of my selfish runner’s needs; if 5 percent of the field ask to be the “one change” to the grouping, they’d need to hire a whole extra bus to accommodate. Considering that I’ve always felt very well looked after at XNRG’s races, I saw firsthand how it’s not abundance of resources but Anna and Neil’s military precision that fulfils our every need; at the same time, it’s clear to see how quickly what profits they do turn could be swallowed up for the want of a bit of forward planning.

By the time we’d seen all three groups breakfasted and on the buses – not to mention their luggage – I was already jumping into the car for my next job: manning station 2 at Hinton Parva, this time under the guidance of checkpoint chief Wendi. Even more wobbly than the soggy ground we set up on on Saturday, this time the table was on a thirty degree slope and the Haribo were in even more danger of flying away than of being snaffled. Following the classic Druid’s schedule, day 3 was a clear, crisp day, dry and bright but absolutely fucking freezing. FREEZING. So, almost as good weather to be standing out in for hours as incessant rain.

God it was fun though. Wendi, a stalwart of XNRG races, is like your friend’s hilarious mum who you sort of wish was your mum. We were messing around so much I only just got the signage and timing pad set up in time for the first runner through, and as the checkpoint is at the bottom of a long downward slope they were barrelling past us – I had to move up the hill to allow for reaction time, they were that fast. As was to be expected the field was more stretched out than yesterday, and by the time we got halfway through my toes (even in their two pairs of socks and thick boots) were already blocks of ice, and my writing basic caveman smudges through my heavy duty gloves.

There was an addition to the timing system this year: a tracker held by the runner at the back of the field which, in the absence of cutoffs, allowed us to see roughly how long we should stay open, avoiding the risk of closing up too early or hanging around for ages unnecessarily. It’s a fairly low tech system which relies on the last runner handing it to whomever they overtake; on the other hand, the tracker had been in the reliable hands of Elaine for days 1 and 2 so we weren’t too worried about losing it. In fact, we learned over the wireless (Whatsapp) that Elaine had company for the day: Marie-Claude, the girl who looked like she wasn’t going to drop out so much as drop dead the day before, had swapped her trail shoes for her hiking boots and every layer of clothing she had, and joined Elaine to enjoy the rest of the Ridgeway at a leisurely pace.

The third day had really started to take its toll on people, and there were at least three dropouts at our station – injured knees and swollen feet scattered around the trail like the aftermath of a battlefield. As I ticked off each race number, either as they passed or were reported on Whatsapp as a dropout from checkpoint one, my runner bingo card became a tally of the most weary, pained and battered people I’d ever seen. Eventually we were down to a group of four colleagues who were hiking together, who passed through smiling as benignly as if they were on a Sunday stroll – actually I almost mistook them for dogwalkers, they were so laid back – and shortly afterwards, the cheerful grins of Marie-Claude and Elaine. I’ve often commented on Elaine’s particular brand of good-natured, matronly stamina, but together they were giggling like schoolgirls who’d snuck away from double Physics. In fact, they were having so much fun that their pace had increased fairly drastically since the first leg – drastically enough that their second wind later turned out to be enough to overtake the Sunday strollers. That’s the final ingredient in a successful ultramarathon – a pinch of childish fun. Because how else do you forget about the lows?

Having seen them safely off we packed up, and I drove back to base to clock my final shift of the weekend: being the Mrs Overall of HQ once again. I feel like I might have been given a slightly charmed rota since all I seemed to do was chat to runners and serve them coffee; but I reflected later than perhaps my impression of volunteering at a race involved a lot more hardship than I thought it would. Don’t get me wrong, it was still ten times tougher than running the bloody thing – and if I’ve heard a single piece of advice about ultras I feel qualified to pass on it’s that you should always smile at the checkpoint volunteers – but it was worth it to appreciate just how much effort goes into this very very complex operation designed to give a small bunch of nutters a good time. And it’s the tip of the iceberg – I turned up on the day and followed a rota and did what I was told. My professional experience tells me that months of preparation and negotiation went into getting the race permit and selling the places, securing the stopover venues, working out and then booking the logistics, sorting out the food and drink supplies, assembling and organising the volunteer team, reorganising them when people pulled out at late notice – never mind the details.

Only when I started for home, very nearly suppertime and all I’d eaten was thieved Haribo and cake, did I start to dive off the crest of adrenalin I’d been surfing all weekend. My lack of fitness and training sent me into a downward spiral at the beginning of this year that became so bad I couldn’t even bear to look at my running club’s social media posts, I was in such a grimy well of self pity. The idea of volunteering to keep in touch when you can’t run always seemed like a good one on paper, but I just couldn’t bear watching other people do the things I wanted to be doing; like watching the ex that broke your heart in a shiny new relationship. Druids was the one event that I felt would be worse to miss altogether than to be involved with in some way, and I’m so glad I got stuck in. It might not have been an entirely altruistic gesture, offering to volunteer just to cheer myself up, but I hope at least it was a mutually beneficial act. Like sharing a smile at the aid station, a good deed – however selfish the motive – cannot help but spread goodwill.

Still though… my Pilgrim’s entry went in the very next day. I’m gonna earn my cake this time.

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Druids Challenge part 2

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Click here for part 1

The alarm is set for 6am but I don’t need it. I’ve woken up every couple of hours since the lights went off at 10pm – not because of discomfort this time, just my overactive mind swinging between vivid action-packed dreams and anxiety attacks. I have episodes of Spaced on my iPad to listen to (I know them so well I don’t need to watch) and they occupy my brain just long enough for me to fall asleep again, with the added benefit of my earphones blocking out the sound of snoring. But it’s not long before my thoughts bustle in and shake me awake, heart racing and ears pounding, and I have to start the whole cycle again.

The walkers and early start group are up and about around half past five – I try to stay under the covers until at least quarter to six but eventually give up and go for breakfast. There’s hot porridge and an array of cereals available, as well as leftover apple crumble from last night’s dessert; if you’ve never tried apple crumble for breakfast you’re missing out. I try porridge – usually a staple of mine for breakfast, lunch and afternoon snack – but for some reason can’t stomach it and am forced to switch to Weetabix and honey which I peck at like a bird. I scoop two spoonfuls of instant coffee into a paper cup and top up with water from the urn and plenty of milk. It’s not quite as good as Caffe Nero’s extra shot large skinny latte, but it’ll do.

Sam is still stubbornly cocooned in his sleeping bag when I get back to the main room, despite the fact that the lights are on and the majority of runners are shuffling about – I don’t know how he sleeps through it. The early starters are due to receive their briefing and be on their way. There’s still plenty of time before I need to be getting ready for the group two briefing but I know from experience how much longer it takes to do simple tasks the morning after a big run, so I’m not wasting any time. I move as if underwater: deliberately, gently supported by the atmosphere, unable to fall but not totally in control.

A quick systems check. I’m not aching anywhere, despite yesterday‘s hot pace. My muscles aren’t feeling too fatigued, my joints are fine, even the pain in my back from yesterday’s train journey has disappeared. Now I’ve had some breakfast and washed my face I’m more lucid, waking up as sun cracks through the clouds outside. For the first time, there’s no nervousness. Well, that’s not entirely true – there’s a little excitement, but no crippling stomach cramps or quickening heart at the thought of today’s task. Just eagerness to get on.

A hundred past versions of me ask how I’m going to run 27 miles of trail, how I’m going to keep up a good enough pace not to lose position, what about the wind and the rain and the mud and the hills, all that negative Nelly bullshit. Not this me. The me that lines up outside the school for the second day briefing can’t wait to get going.

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I decided to play day two with a little more caution: accept a drop in the standings but exercise damage limitation. I was aware that the majority of the runners will have taken it easy on day one, hoping to make up time on the relatively flat course today. If I’m honest, I much prefer proper steep hills – something I can march up and sprint down – compared with gentle rolling runnable hills that gradually suck energy without you noticing. But, well, you run the course you’re given not the one you wish you had. Tomorrow would be my day.

It was pissing down when the walkers set off at 7am, but by the time we left the school gates at 8am the promised downpour seemed to have taken a tea break and a bright grey sky looked down on us. I stayed towards the front of the pack as we left the school gates again and ran up the high street on our way back to the Ridgeway trail, but resolved to stick to ten minute miles. Another Chaser, Chris, joined the pack to do day two and ran with me for the first half mile, before gunning it to finish seventh overall for that stage. Gradually more and more of the women passed me but I counted them all through and kept in touch. The first section was sharp ups and downs through sheltered singletrack before dropping down to the flat riverside path, and this would be my playground.

Then, only nine miles in, a minor disaster – while I was enjoying hammering down a short hill, I felt a familiar needle working its way between my ribs and knew I had a stitch coming on. Damnit. Within moments I was buckled over and forced to breathe only in short shallow breaths. No more downhill hammering for me – and no enjoying the payoff of seven miles of climbing either. Bastard bloody *gasp* stupid little bah bah *gasp* bah stitch *gasp* bastard… I chuntered on for a good couple of miles, watching runner after runner overtake me. It was so irritating to be humbled by something as pathetic as a stitch that I tried running through it, which obviously made the stitch fight back and strangle my diaphragm even more. Conceding defeat, I walked it off and picked up the pace again just in time for the track to open out onto the Thames.

Race Director and Extreme Energy‘s head honcho Neil Thubron had warned us that the middle third felt like it went on forever; despite being the lowest, flattest point of the whole Ridgeway, it was boggy, exposed and straight. As if to further illustrate his point, the storm finished its tea break and clocked back in with a vengeance – winds coming from three directions, rain like bullets, visibility so bad even Lewis Hamilton wouldn’t drive through it. I actually had to pull the hood of my waterproof over my lucky QPR cap to stop it from being lifted off my head, despite having my hair pulled through it to anchor it, and I still had to keep my eyes on my feet to avoid going into the drink. The conditions were pretty miserable. But then I remembered something else Neil said – once you reach the second aid station you were at the end of that section, about to turn back into the woods and away from the exposed riverbank. So now there were two reasons to dream about the familiar white gazebo and trestle tables full of snacks.

The new me was still in charge at this point – unlike old Jaz, I wasn’t too bothered about the storm really, except for the fact that the wind literally took me off my feet a few times and I had to fight to stay vertical. I was a bit disappointed to miss the beautiful views of the Thames, the houseboats and the gorgeous villages of North Stoke, South Stoke and Goring and there was absolutely no chance of getting my phone out for photos. Still though, I was here to run the race I signed up for, and I was running the same race as everyone else. In the words of Dory, just keep swimming.

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Photo courtesy of Extreme Energy

Coming into the second aid station at Goring was like entering a different universe – as suddenly as it had arrived, the storm let up and I even managed to pick up some salted pretzels without them disintegrating in my hands. The stitch long gone, my muscles were still fresh and enjoying the runout. This last stretch would be slightly different though; unlike the morning’s funfair-esque ups and downs miles 17 through 27 would be a pretty much gradual and constant ascent all the way to the finish. It was dig in and climb time.

I knew that the stopover between days two and three was at a leisure centre – a few miles off the trail, so we would be bussed to the gym in waves after finishing the stage, stay overnight then be bussed back in the morning to resume. I heard lots of stories from seasoned Druiders – temperamental showers, long queues, free sauna but cold gym – but the only thing that stuck with me were the words “swimming pool”. We would have run of the centre, including use of the swimming pool, and all I could focus on was being able to squeeze in a gentle few laps at the end of the day. I can only just swim – in fact, it wasn’t until a couple of years ago that Andy showed me the difference between staying afloat with doggy paddle and actually propelling myself forward in the water – but I wasn’t exactly planning on racing anyone. I just wanted to be submerged in water that hadn’t come from the sky or a puddle in the ground, and give my muscles a break. If it sounds like a weird thing to crave after spending two days running through rain, then call me a weirdo.

September’s New Forest Marathon was the first time I had run a marathon without my earphones in, and I didn’t explode then so it must have been safe. I realised, halfway through day two of Druids, that I hadn’t had them in all weekend, and more than that I wasn’t missing them either. I hadn’t even had anyone to chat to, apart from brief snatches of conversation as me and the other ladies passed each other. My soundtrack was my thoughts, interspersed with Modest Mouse’s Float On which Andy had been playing in the car on Friday morning during the ten minute drive to Clapham Junction station. It was surprisingly liberating, allowing my thoughts to play out underscored by the steady rhythm and anthemic lyrics of the song. Another small victory for me, weaning myself off of music and the need to distract myself from running; finally, I was actually enjoying the moment itself, storm and all. I was alone with my thoughts and for the first time, not tortured by them. I always try to smile when I see marshals or people at aid stations, but this weekend it wasn’t an effort to smile at all.

I passed two remarkable challengers as I started plodding methodically up the hill; one was Mal Smith, a regular at Challenge Hub races who I had seen at both the Moonlight Challenge and 50 Mile challenge this year, wearing a harness and dragging Tommy the Tyre behind him. That’s right; he and his companion Alfredo would complete the 84 miles while each pulling a tractor tire behind them, up hills, through bog and over stiles, to raise money for Age UK. Every day I saw them I waved and smiled, and every day I got a wave and a smile back, despite the combined thirty hours they would spend out on the course, three times as long as the eventual winner. It’s a good reminder not to be ungracious however crap you feel during a race.

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Lifted by a second wind – both figurative and literal – I reached the final checkpoint feeling upbeat and singing tunelessly along to Float On (or at least, the only bit of the song I could actually remember). The final section would be relatively short but it would be all uphill, fighting a sidewind as we now turned a sharp right heading north west. I could either smile or growl my way up it, and I knew what I’d rather see on the race photos. Still struggling to eat, I grabbed a fistful of sour Haribo to get me to the finish and thought about a dip in that swimming pool when I got back to base.

The last couple of miles were tough – unsteady ground and on an upward curve, as well as exposed and windy – but I powered up towards the white XNRG flags that seemed never to get closer until the very last minute. I crossed the line ten minutes quicker than the first day, although having run two fewer miles it was a drop in pace overall. Still though, I felt strong and with plenty in reserve for the final day. The ambulance at the top was ostensibly there for anyone suffering from exposure, but more importantly served tea and coffee for those waiting for a lift to the leisure centre – as far as I’m concerned a hot cup of coffee should be a staple in any first aid kit. It was one of the best cups of instant I’ve ever had in my life.

Sam had finished only a little over an hour ahead of me again, and had nabbed us two spots on the gym floor where I set up my campbed and quickly changed for a swim. I managed to get about ten seconds of tepid water to wash the worst of the dirt off me and skipped to the pool only to discover that it was closed for a little boy’s birthday party. The mums were plainly not impressed to find a lot of muddy runners in the communal (read: open) showers, and the runners, although not particularly shy around each other, felt a bit awkward bumping into the birthday boy in their birthday suits. I get the impression neither party was expecting the other to be there, or at least both thought they had booked the centre to the exclusion of all others. I tried to get something approaching a shower without embarrassing myself and went for a massage while I waited for the pool to reopen, trying not to be too grumpy cat about it and feeling a little bit sorry for the boy.

Apparently the mums weren’t overjoyed to find the massage team stationed upstairs outside the sauna either, and complained about the indecent display of oily limbs and groaning runners, but there wasn’t much anybody was prepared to do about that – without those daily 15 minute rubs, there’s almost no way I would have been able to carry on. Eventually the little boy and his very unorthodox birthday party took their leave and immediately I was back in my swimming costume and plunging into the now uncomfortably cold water. It took my breath away for a minute, but it was absolutely worth the wait. Six laps later I emerged feeling like someone had stuck my head on a brand new body, just in time for dinner.

In one final kick to the balls, the caterers were told they couldn’t cook in the space that had been set up for them so they prepared sausage pasta, potatoes and salad, and four different kinds of pudding in the van and schlepped the whole lot up to the makeshift canteen. It all felt a little bit wartime but if I’m honest, it made the whole experience even more fun, and the XNRG team never failed to deliver on any of their promises, not a single one. That evening there were two speakers lined up: Rory Coleman, who had supported Sir Ranulph Fiennes during the 2015 Marathon des Sables and who had himself completed the race 12 times; and previous winner of Druids (and all round loveliest man ever) Nathan Montague, talking about his win at the Kalahari Desert Marathon. I wasn’t too bothered about the MdS but I wanted to hear from Nathan – unfortunately, a change to the running order meant I got there too late to hear him speak so retired to my campbed with Chrissie Wellington’s biography for a bit of inspiration and put my feet up.

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I’m more convinced than ever that multi-day races are the one for me, but one of the best things about the weekend (despite my being nervous about talking to strangers) was actually the isolated, shut-away from normal society side effect of spending three days with other running geeks. That’s not a very marketable way of explaining it, but I can’t quite find the words that celebrate how much fun it was to sleep on cold floors with 150 snoring runners for three days, talking about stage splits and recounting old races. I got to indulge myself without feeling guilty about boring my friends, and I got it out of my system long before I got home. It’s an experience I would highly recommend, especially in the safe hands of Neil and his team, and I can see now the intrigue of the MdS. Still though, you’re not getting me out in the desert for any amount of money. Mud every day for me please.

So that was day two, the hump day, the toughest course. I had only slipped one place to ninth in the overall standings, and a top ten finish was still within reach. All I had to do was the same thing all over again. I do like a routine.

Click here for part 3

Druids Challenge part 1

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In the run up to the Druids Challenge, I had plenty to think about.

With 84 miles to cover over three days, I would have to think about pacing myself to make sure I didn’t burn out. Then again, I was curious about my progress over the last couple of years, and I knew I was more suited to multi-day ultras than to long single stage races – should I go for it this time, find out how well I could place if I pushed myself? I compared what I expected my time to be with the previous year’s times, and it was certainly a lot better than the 19th place I managed at the Pilgrim’s Challenge back in February.

I had the terrain to think about too. With no experience whatsoever of the Ridgeway, all I had to go on was the elevation graph, photos of past races, the ubiquitous National Trust acorn markers and a route card. At least I had a fair idea of what the team at XNRG would have in store for us; there were bound to be hills, mud, chalk, rain rain and more rain. Best to assume the worst and enjoy the rest.

Then there was the exhaustion factor; besides running just over a marathon every day for three days over trails, I would have less than ideal resting conditions between stages. No warm bed in my familiar dark and quiet bedroom, no bath to soak my weary muscles in or long suffering boyfriend to wait on me hand and foot; instead of creature comforts I would have a cramped campbed on a gym floor with 150 other people. I learned my lesson from Pilgrims; the key was to finish as quickly as possible so as to nab myself a prime bit of real estate and get my phone and watch on charge before all the power points were taken. And finding somewhere to dry off wet kit was a challenge in itself.

What’s more I had been counting on having fellow Chaser Cat there too for moral support, but she had had to pull out after being sidelined with injury. It wasn’t exactly my comfort zone, being among lots of unfamiliar people who all seemed to know each other – I would have to pluck up the courage to talk to the other runners or face a very isolated three days.

I had all this and more to think about, but only one thing kept coming back to haunt me. My old nemesis: public transport at rush hour. With an 11am start in Tring, the only train that would get me there from Clapham Junction in time would be the same train for hundreds of commuters – hundred of angry commuters already crammed in like sardines and in no mood to let me on with my massive hiking backpack. Eighty four miles of trail would be a piece of piss in comparison.

I wasn’t wrong to worry. Despite getting to the platform a full ten minutes before the train was due, by the time the already heaving carriages pulled in I was pushed – physically pushed – aside and very nearly missed my only opportunity to get to the race start in time. I had to run the length of the platform with three days worth of kit swinging around on my shoulders until I found a door with a crack of space free, and leapt on just in time for it to pull away. I looked up, expecting to see faces full of hatred, then realised with relief that I had found the one carriage full of runners, all looking as traumatised as me.

Settling into my few square inches of standing room, I did a quick systems check and found I’d pulled a muscle in my back, just behind my ribcage and perfectly placed to make it difficult for me to breathe. Great. A runner standing next to me spotted the mixture of panic and pain in my grimace, and offered a sympathetic smile. This turned out to be Noushka, a scientist from Southampton who had won her place on Druids from volunteering on previous events and had already had to make two changes to even get this far. We chatted for the rest of the hour long journey, joining up with another runner called Laura who had also had a ballache of a morning getting to Tring from the south coast, and I had to concede that I’d had it pretty easy in comparison.

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By the time the shuttle bus picked us up at Tring to take us to race HQ I was buzzing, impatient to finally get on the road. We were taken to a farm to pick up race numbers, receive the briefing and drop off our packs, which were to be taken to the school in Watlington where the first day’s racing would end and day two would begin. Another series of shuttle buses took us as close to the trailhead as buses could get, but it fell to to race director Neil Thubron to walk us half a mile to Ivinghoe Beacon at the top of the hill for the race start. A steep downhill start that I couldn’t resist hammering for all I was worth, eyes blinded by tears and bitter cold, arms outstretched as I skidded down the chalky slopes. My kind of race start.

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One of the remarkable and brilliant things about XNRG races is their policy of no cutoff times – the team stay out until the last competitor is safely back in. Their races are open to long distance walkers covering the same route as the runners, but it means that they have staggered start times with walkers leaving first, mid pack runners an hour later and elites an hour after that. For the first day your start time is based on your projected finish time which you state when you sign up, but after that you are grouped by the previous day’s finish times: 9am for the first forty finishers, 8am for the next forty, 7am for everyone else. It’s a system that leaves no-one behind, as well as presumably the only way to make sure both the four hour finishers and the nine hour finishers got back in time for dinner.

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My ambitious start put me in good position in the pack, but I was going quicker than the 10mm pace I had planned while the going was good and aware that a nice big uphill was on its way. I couldn’t resist a good challenge. The strong position felt too good to give up without a fight, so I kept count of the women in front of me and made sure that everyone that passed me on the uphills were safely behind me by the bottom of the hill. I realised I was racing now, a new experience for me and a whole different way to approach running. No chatter, no music to zone out to. Game face.

Day one was the longest of the three but only by a smidge; 29 miles, compared with 27 on day two and 28 on day three. I was starting in the middle pack with Noushka and Laura among others, and the elite pack included Cat’s friend Sam, who I had met at Pilgrim’s. We had briefly bumped into each other at the race HQ and he joked about me saving him a spot at the school, although I was pretty certain that he’d beat me back even with an hour’s head start. Now of course I wanted to shrink that lead as much as possible.

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The first checkpoint that day didn’t come until mile 11 so I had to make sure I got some food into me long before then to avoid crashing. My bonk at the NDW100 and my issues with eating ever since played on my mind all weekend; normally I could slow down to reduce the effect of jostling on my stomach, but if I wanted to make a good time I would have to go slightly faster than was comfortable, which meant a higher likelihood of nausea. It would be a delicate balance to strike, and I am done with mid-race technicolour yawns thank you very much. But, I’d also learned my lesson after breaking my back on the Pilgrims Challenge carrying a four course meal in my race vest; the XNRG aid stations are well-stocked, varied and pretty kind to a wobbly stomach, so all I had with me were my ubiquitous Nutrigrain bars and some emergency gels and Shot Bloks. The evenings would be my chance to stock up on calories.

The terrain on the first day was relatively sheltered, mostly single track through woods and plenty of ups and downs like the Dorking section of the North Downs Way – I had a blast pushing myself on the twisty trail, and the light rain was nice and refreshing. There was nearly 5000 feet of total elevation gain over the twenty nine miles but the uphills were uphill enough to walk, which is a polite way of saying steep enough not to feel guilty about not running. The exact definition of that gradient changes for me by the day, but that day the balance was bang on. I didn’t get to do as much gossiping as I normally would, or as much touristy photo-taking for that matter, but I enjoyed the feeling of moving at speed knowing that it wouldn’t last too long.

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Because of the later start, the first day was the only day we were required to carry headtorches – the only piece of mandatory kit apart from a mobile phone – in case dusk fell before we made it to the school at Watlington. I pushed on through the next aid station but as the sun put on slippers and dressing gown and made for bed I started to flag. As charmed as my day had been, just when I needed a bit of a lift I came across two runners who I’d been passing and passed by all day: experienced ultra runner Ash and his friend Chris who had signed up on a dare after only ever having run a half marathon. We were all feeling the slump, counting down the last few miles just as we found the boggiest, most energy-sucking foot-grabbing custardy mud section of the whole course. Ash and I are both – how do I put this – compact in stature with less than eleven feet in height between us; Chris on the other hand was closer to eleven feet tall on his own, and none of us were built for dragging ourselves through bog. We’d made great time throughout the day but all we could do was walk at this point, so conversation turned to what it always does on trail races: life story, positive reinforcement, trying not to say fuck too much in front of strangers.

I had actually spoken to Ash earlier in the day when I thought I’d recognised him from a previous race – probably not the best way to reassure someone you’re not insane, asking if they’re absolutely sure they didn’t run the such-and-such bazillion miler recently – and seen Chris overtake me on hills a number of times, but it wasn’t until that last stretch that I realised they were running together, just at a much more even pace than me. Chris had been cajoled into taking up running in order to get fit and lose a couple of stone, which is achievement enough in itself, but I was even more impressed by the fact that he’d gone straight for a three day race over 84 miles for his first, bypassing your good old fashioned marathon like any normal person would. He had a very dry sense of humour – he had to have – compared with Ash’s forthrightness and the pair of them made a comedy double act that really cheered me up. They both tried to remain gentlemanly and refused to swear in front of me while I spewed every vile, graphic and unladylike bit of dockers’ vernacular I could think of as each footstep disappeared into the bog. There’s the twenty-first century for you.

Runner after runner passed us on the last mile stretch, just as the light was fading and our legs protesting, demanding recompense for the first twenty eight miles. After we turned off the trail and onto paved ground leading up to the school Chris asked us how far we had left at pretty much hundred yard intervals, and Ash and I doled out information scrap by scrap, partly for his sanity, partly for ours. Less than a quarter of a mile from the end, on the final road that would lead us to the school gates I saw Cat’s friend Sam and leading lady Maree pass us, both having started in the elite start an hour after us. It meant we hadn’t lost that much ground if the front runners were finishing around an hour ahead of us and it gave me a burst for the finish line. Ash, Chris and I crossed together, the three of us holding hands, and piled into the school hall for soup, rolls, coffee and cake.

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Our stopover that night was at a school, where we had taken over the assembly hall and gym for sleeping quarters, both sets of showers and changing rooms, and the main hall for a canteen. It wasn’t the most glamourous of locations but Neil and the Extreme Energy team treated us all like stars; as ever tireless, cheerful and with a solution to everything. They had even put down a tarp to leave our muddy shoes on, left bundles of newspaper to stuff inside them overnight, and set up a board with day one standings and information for the following day including elevation, weather report and photos of past races. I set up my pop up camp bed – probably my biggest triumph of the whole weekend, not having to sleep on the cold floor – next to Sam (and more importantly, a power point), and queued up for the best/worst shower of my life. It’s hard to describe how much I appreciated that anaemic dribble of lukewarm water which cut out every ten seconds.

Ash, Chris and I had finished 41st, 42nd and 43rd respectively on day one, which meant we had just missed the first 40 cutoff for the elite start the following day – pretty much the perfect balance between getting the earlier start we knew we’d need the next day and being back in time to grab a good sleeping spot. After the day one standings were confirmed I was shocked to discover that I was eighth lady – how the hell did I manage that? – and suddenly my curiosity became determination. Being top ten felt good, I thought, I’d quite like to hold on to this. As Neil pointed out though, the second day was still to come; despite being the shortest and flattest it was invariably the toughest day, hitting at the point before your body has quite acknowledged that you’re carrying on whether it likes it or not and after the reserves of day one energy have been used up. It would also be a lot more exposed than the first day, especially the stretch along the Thames, and the kind cooling drizzle of day one was due to become torrential rain and winds on Saturday. Not to mention the fact that it would finish on a long slow uphill.

All details, of course. Now I had found my real game face.

Click here for part 2