Japan – 22nd October 2025

Travel

Managed to drag myself up and out by 6:30 for a run around Osaka castle, bit misty and drizzly but lovely to get the legs moving, especially before the streets get too busy and I can cross roads London-style without feeling too guilty (the locals are very strict about waiting for the green man to light up).

Curry for breakfast again, we’ve promised each other that tomorrow we’ll use the salad bar, so we get at least a few nutrients that might possibly be missing from meat and rice!

Last night we had a breakthrough with how to navigate trains and tubes here, so instead of a convoluted tube journey we walked for 10 minutes and got the direct train to Nara, felt like a major win. Disconcertingly the train goes up and over a (small) mountain, feels so very wrong to be on a train that goes uphill.

I wanted to see the temple housing a 14 meter bronze Buddha, Trix was more interested in the deer. I had a vague notion that they were protected and you could buy biscuits to give them, I had no idea there would be 13,000 of the cute creatures, and that they had the process of getting food from tourists absolutely nailed.

They’d gather around the food vendors waiting for someone to buy some, and then nibble anything they could get their little mouths around, hoping for something edible. Trix had her bottom bitten and one of the soft toys hanging off her bag got a thorough chewing before I wrestled it away. For such small animals (the size of a large dog, mostly) they can be surprisingly intimidating, so we stashed the food and rushed off to the temple.

Tōdai-ji was first opened in the year 752 (!), and apparently is the world’s largest wooden structure, though that didn’t really matter, what we noticed was how calm we both felt inside, looking up at the massive statue inside, I could have stayed there for hours.

Wandering through the park afterwards Trix figured out that the best deer strategy was to find one that looked a bit lonely, bow to it, and then when it bowed in return, reward it with a biscuit. Quite incredible how well they know the procedure, made us both very happy.

After all this feeding we were starting to feel undernourished, so nipped into a local cafe slightly away from the tourist places. Calm and gentle, perfect. Hamburger and rice (and beer) for me, tea and nuts for Trix, then back to the station with 3.5 miles in our legs.

Back to the hotel to chill, or… add another hour to the train journey and go to Kobe for an early supper?

I mean, Kobe, home of Wagyu beef, could we really turn down the opportunity? Course not.

It was a bit early by the time we got there, so had a pleasant wander around the port area and stuck our heads into the Maritime museum for a bit (not very exciting, but nice to get out of the drizzle).

Kobe did not disappoint, the food was amazing (the restaurant wasn’t as good as Jumbos in Tokyo, but half the price, so …), we didn’t overcook it and could have carried on eating for ages.

Now we really did need to get back to the hotel, thankfully the train line passes mercifully close by and (with a pit stop at the local Lawsons for beer and snacks) within 90 minutes we’re back chilling on our sofa and planning tomorrow.

Oh, as we got off the train Trix noticed the grab handles are little deer, a very Japanese detail.

Self Transcendence 24 hour track race 2025 – Race Report

race

It’s almost 1pm, they’re starting to put the names and distances up on the leaderboard for the first time in the event, the first of 24 updates. If I’m anywhere other than near the bottom, I’ll know I’ve been going way too fast.

The fifty two starters had stretched out into a long procession in lane one soon after starting, there is enough room to overtake, and the urge to chase was really strong. Legs full of glycogen, sun shining, snacks and drinks on my table every few minutes, maybe I should just let loose and get some early miles in. Nobody would be able to take them away after all.

Kieran came flying past, lapping me uncomfortably often, and he wasn’t the only one, maybe I really was going too slow.

Glancing at my heart rate, the biggest display field on my watch (so I could read it without my glasses) it said 144 BPM. I knew what my coach would have to say if he knew I was in zone 3 this early on, he would say what I overheard someone nearby me mutter in annoyance, “they said if I’m doing more than 10:40s per mile I’m going too fast, but fucks sake, I feel great, I’m going for it”.

I slowed down until I was in the green zone, 132-138 BPM, my pace dropped to 11:30 minute miles, frustratingly slow, runners piled past me. I sighed, pulled my shoulders back, took a sip of Maurten laced water, and settled in for the long haul. Lets see if this works.

Three months ago the realisation that the race was no longer in the distant future came as a bit of a shock, life had changed quite dramatically (I quit my job) and without the twice daily five mile run-commute my training had faded away. Apart from gym sessions, but you don’t run a race with big shoulders, though my vest would probably fit me better. Something had to be done.

I was wary of employing a coach, previous experience had always ended in injury, but I needed the motivational boost, as well as the accountability nudges that ensured I actually put my running shoes on and left the house.

The other reason I hadn’t been training is because I hadn’t been able to walk properly for a while, years of kicking rocks in the mountains had transformed my right big toe joint into a painful lump of extra bone.

“See all those little bits in the X-ray? They’re tiny pieces of bone that are floating around, when they get into the joint you’ll notice that it hurts more than usual”

It did, I could hardly bend it at all, wearing sandals was totally out of the question, not only because my deformed foot was embarrassing to have on display.

“Look, it’s osteoarthritis, and it’s not going to get better on it’s own, and no steroid injection is going to help with all that rubble in there. I can fuse it if you want, that’ll help with the pain, but it’ll never bend again”.

I looked at him in disbelief, sitting in a gleaming white office in the Shard, my scruffy running kit very out of place. My right glute and hip were already vigorously complaining about my unbalanced gait, the sort of pain that boosts opioid sales and I wanted no part of that.

“Yeah ok, well that doesn’t sound very appealing, I’ve got a 24h race in a few months, is there any other option?”

“The other thing we can do is to open it up, pull the big tendon aside, saw off all that extra bone, fish out those loose bits and sew it all back together. Standard cheilectomy, day case”

This sounded….horrible.

“Ok, and that will fix it?”

“Maybe” he said cheerfully, “we won’t know for sure until six months afterwards, but you should be walking a few weeks after the operation, probably back to running in six”

I grimaced.

“I can fit you in next week, what do you say?”

It didn’t really sound like there was much of a choice here, I wanted to run, and hopefully I’d be recovered enough for Glastonbury, just five weeks away.

“Ok fine, let’s do it”.

Once the anaesthetic had worn off my foot felt exactly like you’d expect from the description of the operation, codeine helped a bit, and I just hunkered down and waited until I was allowed to start walking more than the short distance to the bathroom and back.

Which is all a very long way of saying that I really needed some assistance in getting race fit before the 20th of September.

The board had been updated and I was happily exactly where I wanted to be at the one hour mark, sandwiched near the bottom of the list between two veteran metronomes, Charlotte Smith and Jo Newens.

Ok, good, keep doing this, let the hares bound away and be the tortoise, keep calm and be vigilant, there are so many things that can go wrong in a race like this. Getting carried away early on is just one of them.

A few days before the start I found myself staring morosely at my packing list, the realisation that there were so few things within my control, so many ways for the race to end badly. I’d put in a lot of physical effort, but as my coach was only experienced in races up to 100K, I wasn’t convinced my training would extrapolate to the mythical 200K all that well, but at this stage had no other choice but to try.

Seeing the training plan laid out was pleasing, a familiar mix of slow runs interspersed with intervals, hill repeats and strength sessions in the gym. I resisted it at first though, acting like a stubborn teenager that won’t be told despite knowing deep down that this was going to be good for me. I mean, who actually wants to do hill sprints?

My coach graciously ignored confessions of boozy nights, and silently updated the schedule to account for missed sessions. He had access to all my garmin data and kept a close eye on resting heart rate and overnight heart rate variability which along with the subjective markers I provided for each workout, allowed him to tweak the plan to keep me working hard, but not injury hard.

Subjective markers being: “On a scale from ‘not very much’ to ‘OMG I nearly died from an exploding heart’, how hard was that?”, and “From a ‘pile of poo’ to ‘incredible, I could have done that all day’, how did you feel afterwards?”

That sort of thing anyway. All integrated with my watch which made it almost impossible not to adhere to.

Sessions would sync to my garmin which would helpfully beep and vibrate when I deviated from the prescribed torture, often I didn’t have enough breath to swear at it and just grimly gritted my teeth and dug even deeper as I attacked yet another nasty hill.

The weeks passed by sweatily and when both Garmin and Strava agreed that my fitness was improving, I released any remaining resistance to the plan, becoming a meek and obedient trainee. I made sure to get plenty of nutrients, lots of sleep and put my trust in this comprehensive data driven approach.

10:30pm and Dan and Zoe have just appeared through the main gate to the track, they said they might pop down but I didn’t really believe them (despite glancing at the entrance every few minutes). What a lovely boost to see their happy smiling faces, I treated them to some sweaty hugs and with a skip in my step hit the 50 mile mark. Average speed so far was still just over 5 miles an hour, and somehow I was feeling… fine? I mean, actually I was feeling good.

Recently I was reading one of my journals from 2018, and a line had become stuck in my head, “take care of the important details, and the rest will mostly just fall into place”, it had become my mantra today, and so far had served me well.

I’d glance at my watch to check my heart rate, then cycle through everything else that I could influence, not exactly control, but I had some agency in. Any hot spots on my feet? Do I need more or less clothes? Is that pain in my stomach something that needs to be dealt with now or can it wait another lap? Am I due something to eat or drink?

Then most importantly I’d assess how I was feeling. Was I being negative and critical of other people around me? Was I feeling euphoric? (both of which generally point towards needing food or water).

Afterwards I’d detach my internal controller and think of nothing much, just cruise for a while, thanking the lap counters as I passed, saying hello as I passed anyone walking, and a well done to anyone who overtook me (of which there were still plenty).

I felt calm and relaxed, my low heart rate meant that I could mostly breathe through my nose, I really wasn’t working very hard, and this was fine, if this is the speed I can go and feel like this, then that’s how it is.

It was only afterwards that I made the connection between all of the above and the name of the race, “self transcendence”. I wouldn’t exactly say that’s what was happening, but when you’re able to observe your thoughts and emotions, without them taking center stage, you really are on that path.

“We’ll talk about 200K at 6am yeah” I said to Ian J as he passed me around 3am. He grunted something non-committal and I laughed. It would be tight, maybe feasible, but probably not, I was ok with that. Mostly I was just happy that I was still moving at the same pace, and even though we’d entered the notoriously dark and bleak portion of the race, I still felt alert and happy. Maybe it was because I was still moving well, my foot was holding up despite some early grumblings and very very slowly, I was tortoiseing myself up the leaderboard.

Ian had kindly allowed me to shoehorn myself into his support area, and between Sophie, Julian, Nicky and Emile they were taking good care of both of us. Having someone available to fill up water bottles, make miso soup, and even just smile and clap from time to time makes a huge difference. I felt guilty for imposing myself but mostly just incredibly grateful.

8am didn’t exactly come around suddenly, but when it did, with the sun shining and the blustery wind in retreat, everyone looked happy and there where cheers and whoops as we changed direction for the final time. A lot of people were walking by this point and I’d set myself the consolation target of a top 10 spot. I just needed to keep eating, keep drinking, and keep moving. Incredibly I was still smiling, and my average pace was only slightly less than it was earlier.

Ian E turned up with a cup of tea and some sort of cheese bun thing, and I allowed myself a little sit down and a happy chat, he was full of early morning energy and sent me back onto the track feeling invigorated (and slightly more comfortable, I’d loosened the laces on my shoes, swollen feet still relatively happy in my altra carbon vanish, mercifully free from blisters).

Jim, Paula and Cooper the dog arrived at 9:30, another lovely dose of warmth and happiness, I lost some minutes chatting but it was ok, it’s not like I was ever going to win.

The race leader for some time now was Julien Cazoria, he was self supported and his pace had barely eased off, I don’t think I saw him walk once. By the end he’d covered 150.9 miles (242.9 km), with a solid 10 miles between him and second place. Some small part of me wondered what his training regime was, but right now I was having a lovely time and midday and the finish was almost within smelling distance.

Unfortunately Jo had to retire, her ankle wasn’t up for the punishment any longer, and I was sad not to be able to chat to her as we’d both been moving at a similar speed.

At 11am my daughter Trix unexpectedly arrived, could this day get any better?

“Wow you’re here!”, I literally screeched to a halt as she appeared on the other side of the fence.

“Yeah I felt bad about you running all night on your own, so skated down after my sleepover”

“I’m so happy, you’ve made my day! Now, I need your help”, the last hour of the race is actually the most fun part of the whole event, a bit of a game that Ian E started a few years ago.

“Right, get on the live tracker and figure out who I need to overtake to move up a few places”

“Ha ok, sure dad”

“Look at the runners that are walking and look a bit broken, they’re the ones we need to target”

The game was on!

Trix would quietly tell me a number and how many times I needed to lap them, then keep me updated using hand gestures as I went past.

I had plenty in the tank and picked up the pace, target locked and six extra laps needed to nab a top 10 spot.

Anna and Edward appeared and joined the throng of cheering supporters clustered by the first corner, energising everyone with their positivity.

By the time the hooter sounded the end of 24 hours, I’d got my heart up to 150 BPM and was moving at 8:30 minute miles, no point finishing without being completely exhausted!

I didn’t catch that runner, she realised that two of us were chasing her and started running too. Trix said that it was a good result, it would have been mean to knock the only girl in the top 10 out in the last few minutes, and I had to agree with her, grudgingly!

Sitting by my little bean bag marked 84 I caught my breath, marvelling at how well my legs had done, astonished by the lack of pain (though it would kick in later) and so, so happy to not be running.

Trix ran over and hugged me, Anna said “why didn’t you tell anyone you were doing this?”

“I find it too embarrassing, people ask me why, and what for, and it’s all just a bit awkward” I mumbled.

“Well I think you’re all amazing, what an incredible achievement!” she beamed at me.

“Yeah ok, let’s go with that, thank you!”

Afterthoughts

I was trying to explain to someone why I like this event so much (this is the sixth time I’ve done it), and the best I could come up with was “The organisers have this unusual mixture of calm and extreme competence, coupled with an incredibly warm and supportive atmosphere. The people who are drawn to it tend to all be very similar, and you rarely get any dicks showing up. When they do they usually crash out early anyway.”

“You never know up front what anyones target is, some are going for a quick 100 miles, or just 100 miles. Others are chasing a Spartathlon qualifier, some are going for records, and some are racing themselves from previous years. So you can’t sensibly chase anyone, and you just have to settle in and run your own race, it’s the only approach that works”.

If you liked the sound of my coach, then the good news is that you can use him/her/it too! I stumbled across Athletica.ai in a newsletter from Dr Phil Maffetone (author of The Big Book of Endurance Training and Racing), and it’s a lot more affordable than a real human being. I am in no way affiliated with the company, these thoughts (and any mistakes) are entirely my own.

Arturs son Alex asked what I ate to offset the 19,160 calories that Strava said I burnt, if you’re interested too:

16 Maurten 160 sachets
4 sachets of innermost electrolyte powder with water
3 small bags of salt & vinegar hula hoops
3 small bags of assorted McCoy’s crisps
3 cups of miso soup
3 small snickers bars
2 bottles of lucozade sport
2 cups of tea
2 cups of ginger root extract (diluted!)
1 bottle of powerade
1 cheese bun
1 small instant noodle pot
1 ginger biscuit

Honestly I wish I’d skipped the “real” food and stuck to liquid carbohydrate, but I didn’t plan well enough for that. My stomach didn’t thank me and hopefully I’ll remember for next year.

I covered 187.616 km (116.57 miles, 469 laps). 11th place, just 1 km behind Paula. You can see all the results here https://statistik.d-u-v.org/getresultevent.php?event=122057

You can’t climb in ski boots, can you? – Silvretta Alps 6 day ski tour, 2025

Ski Touring

“Really, you can call this ski mountaineering”

You can call it whatever you want, I’ll pack the ice axe and crampons, but I really hope that we’re never in the sort of situation where I need them. Same goes for that rope I can see you stuffing into you pack.

“Ok guys, crampons on, we’ll head up to this summit”

FFS.

We’re in the Austrian alps, right on the border with Switzerland, I keep losing track of which side we’re on.

The journey here (and the day before) was a bit too stressful, the fire at Heathrow had thrown a large flaming oily spanner into our precision planning. One ski bag going missing (along with boots and crampons) had meant an early dash to the ski shop, and 6 pints of Weiss beer didn’t exactly aid a restful and restorative sleep at the hotel.

Bus to Ishgul, day ski pass purchased, then a fast crossing of the area via 6 lifts and a gondola to get out into the wilderness, nobody wanted to get to the Jamtal hut after dark (though we’d all packed head torches). My lightweight skis juddered down the hard packed piste and I was already cursing my fiddly pin bindings.

After a long and sweaty skin up to a pass at 2,960m, the weather turned ominously foggy and we bounced our way between rocks and powder down to the hut.

Massively dehydrated, but in need of Weiss beer, we dumped our kit in the foul smelling boot room, found our allocated table for the next day or so, and I worriedly listened to excited plans to summit the highest peak in the area, Piz Buin at 3,312m high.

Ropes would be needed.

Gah.

The first night is typically the most boozy, but we felt compelled to sample everything on the wine list and I started day two with the worst hangover of the week.

Straight up in the sun, of course, but amazing views, and we had a nice picnic around 3,000m.

We watched sadly as someone from another group fumbled a ski just over a steep pass, and it cruised to freedom over a pristine powder bowl, Switzerland bound.

I’m not sure if I wasn’t paying enough attention to plans, or was just wrapped up in maintaining a steady uphill pace, but when the order to don crampons and deploy our ice axes came, I quietly complied and before I really knew what was happening was slowly hauling myself up towards the top of Augstenberg, at 3,225m. My eyes kept filling up with sweat and sun cream, and I definitely had the wrong gloves on.

The guide gave me a puzzled look, my technique was generously called “unusual”, but quite why anyone would choose to stand on their hind legs instead of jamming their toes in, sticking their arse up, and clinging onto the mountain for dear life was beyond me.

“Is that a corniche?” That rounded soft snow to my left, with nothing but blue sky and distant peaks beyond.

“No”

I don’t know how he knew that, but I was giving it as wide a berth as possible. We walked the last ridge to the summit and admired the breathtaking 360 degree views.

Getting down was weirdly easy, and made me realise that it’s the feeling of being really exposed that jacks up my fear levels. I’d actually made it to a summit and was very pleased with myself, maybe Piz Buin could be tackled after all.

The next day we headed over a pass at 2,952m to the Wiesbadener hut, 90% of the time spent going uphill, as is the way with this sport, but the downhills more than make up for it. The hut was lovely and cosy, and not full, so we spread out a bit in the dorm. It’s always nice to not have to get into bed through a curtain of other people’s stinking kit. I’d like to say you get used to the smell, but you don’t.

The guide told me that Piz Buin isn’t difficult to climb, “just a hike up a steep couloir and then walk to the summit”. We’d need to be roped together though, so I’m beginning to think our definitions of what’s hard are quite different, definitely feeling anxious about it.

The next morning was crazy cold and foggy, and Piz was off the menu. I was quietly very relieved, and hoped we’d do some other peak instead so I could get a bit more practice in. There was talk of Dreiländer and I was game.

After an unusually brief uphill stint we had a beautiful clear day and some lovely fresh snow to ourselves. Smiles all round, then back to skinning up in the sun.

The guide said that Dreiländer is actually incredibly exposed, and with the fog rolling in he didn’t feel comfortable taking us all up there. Phew!

Easy descent for lunchtime Weiss beers then.

By this stage I’d realised that getting a good night’s sleep in smelly, farty dormitories was never going to happen, so I may as well just enjoy the booze. At least it sedated me and although my watch told me off every morning, it was better than lying awake trying to ignore the snoring that was so loud I had to keep checking my ear plugs were still in.

In what was now a familiar routine, we were all fed, packed, decorated with the paraphernalia of harnesses, ice screws, carabiners and of course transceivers at 8am. Most of us anyway, there’s always a straggler.

We hiked up about 800 meters to the go / no-go point for the mighty Piz, which was…. covered in cloud.

“It might clear. If we go it’ll add 2 hours to our day, what do we think, is everyone feeling strong?”

Looking back at our spread out group, and the extra effort that would be required, we hesitated. The super fit and mountaineering types were obviously keen, but it seemed a lot on day 5, and there was no guarantee the cloud would lift.

We turned right and up onto a col, away from the peak that I’d slowly started to think was achievable. It would still be there next year.

The sun came out, and after a bit of a dodgy descent around huge rocks and drops, we had the Silvretta glacier to ourselves and stopped for lunch out of the wind.

“There is another summit here, Silvretta Egghorn, those who want to rest can wait, we won’t need crampons”

Ok great, I’ll get a bit more climbing time in after all. I’d opted out of any of it last year, so although this route was generally less technical, I was definitely feeling the extra challenge.

I wish I did have my crampons, and a rope.

Bloody hell.

Scrambling up slippery rock with a massive drop behind me was… Well, I was scared, but couldn’t allow myself to dwell on it. Total focus. I had to ask the guide to help place my feet on the way down though. Some of the rocks were actually loose and moved when I grabbed them.

Fucks sake.

From 3,147 meters we had a spectacular view of Piz Buin, and it definitely did not look like a “walk to the summit”, it looked more like a steep icy slide.

One day.

The ski down the other side of Silvretta glacier was easily the best of the trip, maybe ever. Untouched powder, bright blue sky, effortlessly gliding through wide turns. Good for your soul.

Energy levels and patience were wearing thin as we approached the hut, though when one of us fell into a snowy hole and shouted “I can’t get out, I’m a fat tortisurtle. Tortoise. I’m too fat to get out!” we couldn’t help but laugh.

The Silvretta hut was a clean and shiny example of Swiss order. Shame it didn’t have any showers and the boot room was the ripest one yet, with the socks I’d been wearing for 4 days making a significant contribution.

We saved all our accidents for the last day, I could tell the guide was thrilled with that. I fell twice, whacked my head on a frozen lake, and left a decent chunk of my forearm on some now bloody snow.

At one point the guide said he “looked back and didn’t know what I was seeing, a pole waving from the snow, it didn’t make sense”

Somehow one of the gang had ended up in a river, even he doesn’t know how. Luckily we rescued his skis as they floated away towards a lake. His socks were probably grateful for the rinse, but I can’t imaging having wet feet for the rest of the day was that much fun.

It was all good though, the sun was out and despite a long long flat pole/skate, but we had snow all the way down to the village, and with some expected faffing from a load of tired and hungry people, ended up in an airport hotel near Munich about 4 hours later.

Oh the luxury. A shower! My own bed! My own bathroom! Clean towels! Sheets! Curtains! Pillows!

I definitely had moments when I wondered what the point of all the effort was, but the contrast between being scared on some ridge, and then skiing down a beautiful wide valley, balances out nicely. I’m not sure I’d appreciate it quite as much if I’d been dropped there by a noisy helicopter.

The feeling of contentment when you’re sitting in a hut after a long day, physically and mentally tired, but warm and cozy and laughing about tortoises in holes and floating skis, is really quite special.

It’s a bit like a multi day ultra, with less running, more laughing, and cold beers at each aid station, one even had single malt whisky, you don’t get that on the spine race!

I used to get scared on chairlifts, and the first time I did an icy traverse on skins I honestly thought I was going to die. Something has shifted, maybe everyone is right, and the more you do these things the less you suffer from paralysing fear. Being fit and strong makes a huge difference too, 6 months of being brutalised by the HPT team paid off.

Having the right kit, and knowing how to use it definitely helps too.

A daft activity or not, we’ve already booked the next trip…

Zero to hero? My “journey” to the Self Transcendence 24 hour track race, 2024

Uncategorized

“200K seems like a good target”

It does. I’m chatting to Ian, and feeling positive. We’re about 9 hours in, I’ve covered 47 miles, and I’m feeling good. No back pain, my feet are happy, I’ve got lots of energy and, yeah, 200K sounds achievable.

I was supposed to run this race last year. I was also supposed to run the UTMB last year too, but I cancelled both.

A routine blood test last summer highlighted something that wasn’t quite right. The doctor said they’d call if there was anything out of line that they’d want to discuss. I was in a work meeting when my phone lit up with an unknown number, and breaking with etiquette I quickly stepped out, hoping it was something minor (they had called me a “fine specimen” after all).

It sounded it, my PSA level was apparently slightly high, “not a big deal, we’ll arrange another test to rule out the false positive”. Ok, back into the meeting, a bit rattled and slightly distracted (what the hell is a PSA?), but there were projects demanding attention.

“You’re not going to die”

Sorry, but what the actual fuck? Who said anything about dying?

I’m on a zoom call with the consultant going through the MRI scan results (the follow up blood test hadn’t done anything to rule anything out, neither had the much more determined rummage up my back passage). Out of the window I can see the sea, with small islands in the distance, I’m meeting friends at the local pub later.

“It’s very unlikely that it’s cancer, it could be various other things, but we need to do a biopsy to really be sure”.

Ok, I didn’t really know what a biopsy would entail, but I booked one in (under a general) for as soon as I could.

Turns out it’s not that much of a big deal, until afterwards.

“You may notice some blood in your urine and semen for a few days”

Peeing lumps of blood out in the mornings wasn’t very nice, and a bit painful, but waking up in the morning with bloody pants wasn’t something many men experience.

The results came back quickly, and I had another video call with the consultant. I’d prepared myself for the worst, but of course I was quietly hoping that this was all going to be some surreal experience I could laugh about soon.

Nope. It was cancer.

Cancer. Fucking cancer.

For fucks sake.

Prostate cancer more specifically, and it had been growing slowly for about 5 years. 5 years where I hadn’t had a blood test, 5 years of no symptoms. Sneaky little fucker of a tumour, and had it been left alone for another 5 years would have spread god knows where.

The news didn’t exactly come as a surprise, I’m optimistic about nearly everything, but also quite realistic. The alternative explanations didn’t make any sense (remnants of TB, STDs… didn’t fit).

Still, incredibly shit. Zoe summed it up perfectly with a tearful “I thought you were invincible”. Yeah, me too.

“You’re very young, so this is unusual, but you’re fit and healthy, so really there isn’t anything to worry about”

Yeah. It just doesn’t match up. I have cancer but I’m not going to die. Ok, easy to say, much harder to assimilate. Especially at 3am (and 4am, and 5am, and … )

Plans were unmade. I could have run the UTMB, but 100 miles of mountains with small holes in my perineum seemed … masochistic, even for me.

Work became less of a focus, the thing that had consumed so much of my waking (and sleeping) life, the company that demanded so much, both mental and physical, was slowly becoming a background distraction. The money was helpful, is helpful, the medical insurance, possibly a life saver, the tax on my mental wellbeing? The time I don’t spend with my family? The slice of my consciousness that I’m able to devote to non work activities, that smidge, is it a balance?

The cliches came thick and fast. My world did turn upside down. The first time I was told I was on a journey I wanted to punch someone.

My sphere of existence shrunk until it only contained my house, various hospitals (I couldn’t go past one without someone taking some blood from me), my wife, daughter, cats, dog, aunt and mum, and my therapist. That was it. I had no space for anything or anyone else.

It’s not that other things and people didn’t matter, I just couldn’t cope, it felt overwhelming and claustrophobic when getting (well intended) messages. Zoe had to manage that for me. I felt pretty pathetic, but at the same time, I was going to die.

Oh no, I wasn’t. Was I? No, I’m going to be fine. Am I?

Repeat.

I was scared. It took me a while to admit that to myself, and it was only really the prompting of my therapist, in a safe and quiet environment that teased it out of me. It was a good thing to recognise, and explained, probably, why my emotions seemed to have stopped working properly.

I had all of them all the time, going for long walks on my own seemed to help, well wishing messages from friends and family reminded me what I’d spent hours trying to forget, I couldn’t manage their emotions when I couldn’t cope with my own.

The day of the operation came round quickly, and I realised that I’d been pretty scared of that too.

I just wanted a hug from my mum.

Telling people, is hard, cancer isn’t really something you can easily drop into a conversation, and having the emotional strength to cope with “but you’re going to be ok, aren’t you” is especially tough. I tried to be positive, but all I could think was that, maybe I would be, probably surely, but nobody can guarantee that.

Telling my daughter, that was crazy hard. We thought she should know, I mean, she knew something was happening, I was in and out of hospital the whole time, and there was a chance it wouldn’t be fine, and so didn’t she have a right to know?

The opportunity came one evening when the two of us were out walking the dog, I felt really nervous, I didn’t want to scare her, and had been practicing my approach for a while.

“You know I’ve been having lots of tests recently? Well, the doctors found something inside me that shouldn’t be there, it’s not very big, and shouldn’t cause any problems, but I need to have an operation to remove it”

She was interested and asked a few questions, but didn’t seem overly concerned, and was sympathetic.

“The thing they’re taking out is called cancer, I think it’s important you know that, but a lot of people freak out when they hear that word”

She calmly replied, “maybe you should tell them like you told me”.

Yes, wise words.

The date of the operation was all I could think about, and time moved painfully slowly, everything afterwards was abstract and distant. One event took up all of my head.

“You’re going to be ok”

Fingers crossed eh? I was going to hand my life over to a medical team, and trust that nothing would go wrong.

It didn’t, of course, and I woke up groggy and alive, with tubes and monitors dangling and bleeping around me.

The first night was pretty rough, nurses checked my vitals frequently, and eventually I convinced them to take the pressure cuffs off my legs, I’d risk thrombosis for some rest, clearly my brain wasn’t fully functional, but sleep deprivation is a powerful force.

“I run a lot” became a common phrase, directed at the nurses squinting at my low heart rate.

The next day I was up and walking around, even up stairs, dragging my pee bag along, and a drain still hanging out of my abdomen.

Home in a taxi, Zoe picked me up, I was tired but relieved. People said that the hard part started now, it seemed pretty straightforward to me, just like recovering from any ultra. My body wasn’t working properly, various bits hurt and walking was more of a shuffle. I could eat what I wanted and afternoon naps were required. All very familiar.

Running wasn’t on the cards for a while, let alone a race. Walking around the block with the dog a few times a day was about it, but I tracked my steps and tried not to obsess about progress.

Losing the catheter felt like a big event, but it did mean that pads and pelvic floor exercises became new companions. I really hoped they’d be a temporary thing.

I’ve always been very self reliant, in control of my own destiny, or trying to avoid being let down by others. The realisation that I couldn’t do this myself wasn’t something that came naturally, or easily.

The act of accepting the fact I needed help, and the humbling process of making space in my head for it was, bizarrely liberating, a weight definitely lifted and I felt more connected to those people around me, the ones caring for my physical and mental health.

My aunt moved in for a week or so, which wasn’t without its challenges, and I had to do what I was told (thankfully that was mostly to rest, drink tea, and eat healthy food).

Not being in control of everything isn’t easy to get used to, I have ways of doing things, the right way obviously, and letting people make mistakes and do things differently was a challenging exercise in self restraint.

Work was still a distant concept, and I found myself embracing the small but essential parts of daily family life. I took great pleasure in making sure my daughter had a packed lunch for school every day, washing, drying and folding the never empty laundry basket.

Things that were previously annoying distractions became my main activities, and it was surprising how focusing on them gave them a different tinge, pleasure in caring for others, and taking pride in “mundane” chores.

Billy (the dog) was a blessing, we’d thought that the extra complication of a puppy in the family would be too much. In fact I think everyone needs a bundle of unconditional love in their life. He was always up for a hug (and a belly rub), and gave me both purpose and something to care for. It wasn’t all about me. Life isn’t all about me. Thoughts like this percolated into my inner, increasingly calm, consciousness. I hoped they’d stay.

I started to question the reasons I ran very long distances, enduring days of pain, time away from the people I loved, and the stress of the buildup beforehand.

And yet.

The pull of the self transcendence 24 hour track race is strong. Somehow it’s different from other races, the team that run it perhaps, the other runners maybe. Of course there is the personal challenge, that’s always there. The sum of the parts doesn’t add up somehow, and I’d even really enjoyed volunteering for the graveyard shift of 11pm to 5am the year before, just a week before my operation.

Gradually I returned to work, and slowly started to run again. Incredibly slowly, I kept my heart rate constant and shuffled along, gradually adding more miles as the weeks went by.

It wasn’t long before I got carried away, it’s a painful pattern that I learn every time I train for anything.

Back to physio exercises and trying not to eat too many ibruprofen.

I joined a gym. I tried to hire a personal trainer, but ended up enthusiastically signing up for a 6 week challenge at a tiny gym in the city instead. The cakes and afternoon naps hadn’t done my physique any favours, and gaining some muscle ahead of turning 50 in a few years time seemed like a sensible hedge against inevitable physical decline.

These are the sorts of things you think about when the future you assumed you’d have looked like it was going to be taken away from you.

That was probably the most chilling feeling of all, and the one that did the most to reshape my outlook on … just about everything.

You know that feeling when you step into the road, not looking, and narrowly miss being squashed by a car speeding by? Your heart goes nuts and the back of your neck tingles. That near miss feeling.

It felt like that, but deeper and stronger.

The urge to quit my job and work in a homeless shelter was incredibly strong, if I’d been given another chance, then shouldn’t I devote a load of time and effort to helping others?

Probably? Maybe? I still had a family to support, bills to pay, and hopefully quite a few years left to live.

Just carrying on as before wasn’t really a viable option, but I could see how this would all fade, and slowly but surely things would go back to normal, with an occasional reminder that I’m a “cancer survivor”, as weird as that sounds.

“What do you really want that you don’t have”?

Sounds easy enough, doesn’t it? There are obvious genie style answers of course, but when you can see your future trajectory through life, a line stretching out ahead of you, one that for a while turned black and started to fade away, the answer might be different.

“I want to be able to relax”

Be able to sit down and not feel guilty. Go for long walks and notice the trees and birds. Listen to my family and unselfishly give them the love and nurture they really need. Switch off the whirring noises inside my head. Unclench my jaw. Enjoy myself. Be here, now.

Let’s be honest, the past is a weird mixture of regret, if onlys, it was better whens. We either forget elements which make things seem rosier, or add interpretations that cast interactions in a more negative frame.

The future can be a bit terrifying, so many unknowns, so many potential pathways, the routes can be overwhelming.

Keeping the occasional eye on the future, enough to course correct, feels essential, but when it takes up most of your head, then where is your life? You miss it, and that’s more than a bit sad.

The gym turned out to be brilliant, not as cultish as CrossFit, and the first 6 weeks didn’t involve much eating, and a whole lot of lifting heavy things and jumping. Before and after photos too. Yikes.

The motivation was there though, the fat fell off, I gained muscle, and kept on running home from work.

My pace at the same heart rate started to increase, I had less achy bits, and decided to run a marathon a couple of weeks before the race. A bit of a test, a decent long run (the longest for over a year), and a chance to see how it felt to carry 7kg less of body weight around for a few hours.

The miles ticked by and I waited for the pain to start. It’s usually in my lower back and shoulders, sometimes my glutes, and after about 20 miles it becomes a bit of a slog.

The pain didn’t arrive, this was new and familiar at the same time. I’d checked my weight log and the last time I weighed this little was in 2015, when I was running 80 miles a week, and doing a lot of ultras.

Back then I wasn’t doing anything else apart from running though, so it’s no surprise that period ended with a stress fracture. Maybe I’d found the magic balance and unlocked the running potential I always hoped I had.

200K in 24 hours? It felt like it was on. I felt calm and full of energy, in my happy running place.

Then the stomach cramps started. It was around midnight and I was not feeling good. My pace slowed dramatically, I tried to figure out what to do without losing too much time, but the solution was obvious, and I lost about 20 minutes.

That’s a couple of miles in a race like this, and I could make it up, especially now I was feeling more sprightly and still in the happy physical zone.

It was a bit weird how nothing really hurt, not even my feet, with my minimal shoes that I’d forgotten to upgrade to something comfier.

I was back in a comfortable groove, and entertaining myself with pace and time calculations for the remainder of the race. When I say entertaining, I mean distracting, I find mental arithmetic hard at the best of times !

The conditions were almost perfect, now that it was dark and cool. The day had been roasting, and plenty of people fell by the wayside (one person only managed 10K, but maybe he turned up to the wrong race). Dehydration is always a risk at this event, the last few years have been surprisingly hot, and it’s not a problem until it is, and then it’s nearly always too late to do anything about.

This time though, surely.

Then the long promised rain started, not a nice cooling drizzle, but a downpour. It didn’t stop for hours. I was still running, actually more splashing and wading, but laughing, the contrast from earlier was ridiculous. The wind got up too and blew away a gazebo. Even the half tame fox who’d been helping himself to peoples snacks retreated somewhere warmer and drier.

A bit of rain is ok, I’ve spent enough time in UK mountains to cope with some wet, so on I trudged, feeling a bit sad for Rob who was wrapped in bin bags, having forgotten his waterproofs.

Trudging through the puddles wasn’t going to get me to 200K though, I needed to up the pace, get back to running 3/4 of every lap, and move that average speed back up to something productive.

Pain. So much pain. Huge blisters under my toes, the rain had taken its toll and I didn’t have spare shoes. By the time I realised what had happened a change of socks made little difference. Also a swollen ankle, no idea why but it was excruciating.

When people find out I do races like this, they always ask “don’t you get bored?”, the honest answer, which ends that conversation rather abruptly, is “it hurts too much to be boring”.

Yeah, not much you can say to that. I can tell from their eyes that they have real concern for my mental wellbeing, and they’ve got a point. The suffering is part of it, weirdly, but it fades quickly I suppose. I’ve got a very high pain threshold, but, there is a limit.

Using the small part of my brain that wasn’t in determination and coping mode, I took stock of the situation. I was starting to weave around the track, it was about 5am and the need to sleep was strong. I wasn’t going to give up, but I needed a new target to keep me moving. Wasn’t exactly sure what it was, but I decided an hours doze was allowed, and a chance to warm up. Having my car there was both a blessing and a curse, having that option made it harder to stay on the track, but the pain was fierce.

When I realised that the annoying background noise was my alarm going off, and I was sitting in the driving seat of my car and not lying in bed, reality came rushing back with a bit of a shock.

No point lazing around, I needed a cup of tea and to get some miles into my legs. The rain had stopped and it was light, so, no excuses.

I still couldn’t run, and my brain wasn’t really working, but I was going to complete the race, I would be on my feet when the final second ticked by. Wouldn’t I?

Being self sufficient is a wonderful thing, you don’t need to rely on anyone else, nobody will let you down apart from yourself. Chipping away at external dependencies, jettisoning relationships makes you tougher, yeah?

Being independent gives you control over your life and your trajectory. Yes it can be lonely at times, but that’s ok, you’re on a mission and you don’t need the extra baggage.

Until you need help. Then what?

Yeah exactly. Fuck all that. I texted my wife. “Nothings really wrong, but I could really do with a hug, any chance you could come early?”

Allowing yourself to be vulnerable is, quite frankly, weird. Being dependent on others means relinquishing some control, and lowering well fortified defences.

I had to do it after my operation, and it was hard, and there was more than one highly emotionally charged … altercation with my aunt. I’d got a bit more used to it now, and accepted that I wasn’t so invincible after all.

The sun came out, the layers came off, and Zoe appeared trackside. I was so happy.

Still couldn’t run, but I was chatty and happy, less than half an hour to go. I had a lot of reserve energy and could easily have picked up the pace, but my feet said no and for once I was being nice to them.

When the final buzzer went, at midday on Sunday the 22nd of September, you could feel the waves of relief from the grateful runners sinking to their knees. We’d finished, we’d completed 24 hours of walking, shuffling and running around a 400 meter track.

It was a year since my world had almost been snuffed out. I hadn’t run 200K, but I hadn’t given up, I was strong, healthy and alive.

I don’t have cancer. I didn’t give up. I ran 101 miles. I am happy.

—

The world looks different now, I’m calmer, and I notice things that actually make me happy. I’m much more particular about where I spend my time.

It’s ok to be scared, and to tell the people you love. We’re all in this together, and going it alone is unnecessarily hard.

Asking for help doesn’t mean you failed. It strengthens bonds and relationships, and admitting your vulnerabilities allows you to address them, or not, it’s ok to not be perfect.

If you’re male and in your forties, maybe get a PSA test, it could save your life.

It saved mine.

Sri Chimnoy 24 hour race (Battersea) 2021 – Race Report

race

Best laid plans and all that.

Mark captured it well:

“You were ‘on the ropes’, taking heavy punishment…”

I was. Must have been around midnight (my memory is muddled around then), and I was feeling horrible. My stomach was painful, my legs had no energy, my head was all over the place and I just wanted to sit down and forget about the whole thing.

The turning point was when I heard myself saying:

“I can’t believe it’s happened again, exactly the same as last time”.

Last time … Tooting 2019, the conditions were almost identical – hot and humid during the day, and much the same at night. Ellie was still stuffing ice cubes down her top (to be fair I think she just likes to make it harder) and Tsvetkov Hristo the (soon to be) Bulgarian 100 mile record holder (12:48:20!) was topless and pouring bottle after bottle of water over himself.

I didn’t want to eat, or drink, or do anything. My arms and legs were gritty with salt.

That triggered another memory from Tooting.

Was I just dehydrated? I’d been drinking plenty, or so I thought, but also sweating buckets, and not peeing. At all. Was it that simple?

I wonder, could I get myself back on track, quite literally, by just drinking some of the weird “hydration” stuff on the aid station table?

It might not be too late this time, and had to be worth a try.

It had all started out so well.

I had of course put together an aspirational plan (with a stretch target of 130 miles), but that was more about getting me to think realistically about my pace, and not take it overly easy at the start making it impossible to catch up later on.

Running each lap around 2 minutes 20 seconds felt fine, I wasn’t pushing myself and was comfortable. It was just really warm, and getting warmer.

Opting for a mostly liquid diet to avoid any stomach issues was fine, Mauren 160 was the only option as far as I was concerned. My helper, who wishes to remain nameless, so I shall just call him “the saint” suggested drinking more water, probably sensibly, but it made me feel boated and horrible, so I avoided it.

Warning bells should have been ringing.

The day went on, I chatted to people I knew from other races, and people I’d just met. Toby came along for a bit, Martin dropped by and bought me a Calipo. All the nice things about track races.

I’d been obsessing for ages about an ice lolly, I could even see the ice cream van outside in the park, but couldn’t figure out how to get one into my hot face.

Apart from the heat, and dearth of shade, there was no breeze.

It got dark, it didn’t cool down. I don’t cope well in the heat. When I set my 24h PB at Crawley in April some years ago it was deliciously cool, my water even froze, much more my kinda weather.

There is a saying that 100 mile races are run in two halves. The first half with your legs, and the second half with your head.

I’d always just assumed the head bit was about gritting your teeth and not giving up.

Thing is, you can’t run the Pennine way in the winter with just brute force, and you can’t realistically run for 24 hours ignoring everything that’s going wrong with your body, and hope to emerge unscathed.

Figuring out what’s wrong and dealing with it sounds easy enough, but problem solving under pressure is quite hard. Problem solving when you’re completely bollocksed is really hard.

It’s similar to trying to get home after a big night out in town. You don’t know where you are, how you got there, and wouldn’t it be so nice and easy to just lie down and sleep.

Somehow throughout all this I managed to maintain some sort of steady pace. I did have a little sit down when I was feeling particularly sorry for myself, but otherwise kept on running 300 meters, walking 100 and grabbing a drink, stretching my shoulders and lower back. A small part of my head hadn’t forgotten that every step counts, even staggery ones.

Slowly, after many hours, I started to feel better, it took a while but I just kept on drinking hydration potions from the aid station, and energy drinks that the saint had prepared for me before he’d gone off for a sleep.

I might have sped up a bit, but importantly didn’t slow down, and started creeping up the leaderboard as others dropped out or stopped more often.

I told myself I was “tortoising” myself up the field.

The sun came up and everyone’s spirits lifted, though I’d been fine with the darkness outside (it was the inside variety I’d been battling with), some pro plus and anadin extra had probably helped.

Somehow I hit 100 miles in 19:57:25, pleased with that!

Feeling strong and much cooler thanks to soaking wet flannels every other lap (he’s not called the saint for nothing) I kept a good pace and this now turned into a race.

Chasing (and being chased by) Brynn, then Ryan, then Sinead (who I didn’t catch), kept me well entertained and importantly fully focused.

Running out of Maurten powder and nearly throwing up a gel was a potential speed bump, but Graeme (the other saint) came to the rescue with another sachet and it was Back On.

The last lap felt like a sprint finish (it wasn’t, there is a video) and I hit 121.25 miles for a 24 hour PB at midday on Sunday.

Something that had been unthinkable 18 hours ago.

I absolutely love this race, the camaraderie, the support, the simplicity.

It’s a niche thing for sure, but I’m already looking forward to next year!

https://www.strava.com/activities/5989112053

The Summer Spine Race 2021 – Race Report

race

“That’s 20 minutes chap”
“What? It can’t be”
“Fraid so, your foods ready too”

I’d arrived at Malham Tarn, checkpoint 1.5 at too-late-pm on Sunday. So far behind my rough and ready schedule it was borderline depressing.

So, so tired, it had been a long hot day after leaving Hebden Bridge at 5:30am that morning.

Colin’s words from years ago were ringing in my ears:

“I always forget it’s a nice first day and then a week long painful slog”.

I wasn’t in the best place, and it was still early.

My feet had developed deep blisters on the soles of my feet, over one of the many fields or moors I’d run/walked across that day. By the time I realised that my shoes were a bit loose and the movement was causing hot spots it was too late and the damage was done. Not much I could do at this stage but grit my teeth and think of nicer things.

When I got here I’d tentatively asked if there was somewhere I could sleep for a bit and fully expecting to be knocked back. The relief at being offered a camp bed in a midge free tent was incredible.

I seriously couldn’t believe that 20 minutes had passed already, most of it was spent twitching and trying to not think about how little of the route I’d covered.

No point being depressed though, and it looked like a lovely evening (ignoring midges) so I grabbed my refilled water bottles, my bag of steaming Mac & cheese and trundled off towards Fountains Fell.

It’s amazing how a brief rest and some hot food can sort you out and I focused on catching those ahead of me, for the challenge as much as the potential company for the impending night.

Joining up with Kirsty (who was doing the challenger) at the sheltered spot just before the Pen Y Gent climb was nice. We put windproof jackets on and knocked back some painkillers, and swapping stories slowly headed up into the increasing darkness.

At least it wasn’t covered in ice this time.

Somehow I ended up on my own again and began the long painful trudge towards Hawes, desperately trying to ignore the dark place I was in 3 years ago at the same spot.

Going into a second night wasn’t too bad, being in the middle of it was torture. I was shouting at myself to stop dreaming, and keeping a running commentary of where I was and what I was doing almost managed to keep me from falling headfirst into the ditch off cam fell Road.

Even when it got light it was still torture, and a few times I just lay down on the trail and went to sleep. There were plenty of people at this stage so it was never long before “hey there – are you ok?” Woke me up and set me weaving onwards with a “yes thanks, thanks for waking me”.

Eventually I’d had enough of the trudge and the road sign that said Hardraw and the checkpoint were still 1.5 miles away was too much, I just picked up my sticks and ran. Anything to make this stop as soon as possible.

As I walked the final grassy approach to the aid station tent, my feet were in agony, I felt exhausted and honestly couldn’t see a way to deal with the suffocating weight of the 160 miles I still needed to cover before the end of the race.

Things were looking grim.

The first day had been great, first evening anyway. I’d been very apprehensive before the start, as is right and proper for such a seriously long undertaking, and loitering around Edale for a few hours didn’t really help. It did give me time to fix up my (ridiculously small) pack, and to eat a load of my food that had to be removed from my overweight drop bag.

Looking back to Kinder scout as I headed towards Snake Pass the view was of a lovely sun tinged green landscape, and one of those moments when you can’t think of anywhere else you’d rather be. I literally skipped along the flags marvelling how much nicer everything was when it wasn’t ankle deep in icy water.

That did come though, a surprisingly nasty storm hit at 3am, strong wind which blasted rain and the top layer of reservoirs at us sideways. It felt like winter and everyone had full waterproofs on.

Arriving at Hebden I was soaked and very awake, so grabbed some food and swapped my kit for something dry, which somehow took an hour and a half. Noted that I needed to faff a lot less, Tin would not have approved.

Back at Hardraw, I staggered into the tent (checkpoint 2), sat down and tried to sort myself out, without quitting there and then.

The only thing I could think to do, was to think about my immediate needs, and to solidly, wilfully, ignore what was ahead. Dimly aware through the haze of sleep deprivation that it had worked before.

Maybe if I focused on my feet, having some food, getting a bit of sleep and re stocking my pack with food and water, I’d forget that I was miserable and everything would miraculously sort itself out.

It did, kinda.

Before I really knew what was happening, I was doing it, I was carrying on, eating an apple and hiking the long climb to the peak of Great Shunner Fell (also nicer when not covered in ice), over the back and into Thwaite, where the cafe was open.

What a treat, I was actually smiling with a toasted tea cake in hand (all of the butter and jam thank you) as I set off happily chatting to Alex and wondering what treats the Tan Hill inn had in store.

There will be ups and there will be downs. Many of them, so many that you have to just accept how you feel and keep eating and moving. It really became that simple.

No treats at Tan Hill, not without a pandemic enforced pre-booking, but they did have hot water for our dehydrated food, and coffee and chocolate, so all was well.

Alex and I pretty much stayed together for the rest of the day, chatting about the usual stuff (ie everything!)

At one point we passed the half way mark. How could that be true ? It was though, and we had a lovely sunset to go with it.

Alex slept less than me and I set off towards Dufton on my own early Tuesday morning. On the way to cauldrons snout I passed Robert Cullen for the first time, this guy was to keep me entertained for hours to come but neither of us knew it then (I’m not sure he ever knew it!).

Towards the end of the interninably long and rocky track that leads to high cup nick I put on a burst of speed to catch up with someone , anyone, that I could talk to and distract myself from feeling sorry for my poor aching feet.

The tattoos creeping up his neck were a little daunting but races like this tend to attract similar people, regardless of what’s on the outside, and we spend a pleasant half an hour talking about other events we’d done and generally not thinking about our feet.

I unwittingly stopped in the “do not stop” zone and sat down for a mini picnic and rest for 5 minutes (precisely where my tracker didn’t work and I’d nearly fallen off the cliffs in the fog a few years ago).

Then the long hot trudge down to Dufton. Very long, very rocky so no running, no wind so it felt like a furnace. I promised myself a sleep and at the very least a nice long cool down at the bottom. I needed some promise to keep me moving along. It was probably around midday and a beautiful day, some of which I’d appreciated, but was now looking at through a veil of sweaty eyes and grinding jaw.

Someone told me that the cafe had opened especially for us, what a wonderful surprise! Not sure how long I lounged around on some shady grass, being fed a grilled panini (with a side salad, fresh food!), coffee and a toasted tea cake (food of the gods those are).

Chris was there too, and Ellie, all in much the same ruined situation. Somehow we laughed and joked a bit, mostly at the ridiculousness of our endeavour.

“It’s basically a brutal first two days, to weed out the weak, and then it’s a straightforward stage race”

Ellie pushed on and I asked Chris if he fancied doing the next section together. We’d had plenty to talk about earlier and I really felt that I was in need of some human company now. Solitude was a big part of my motivation for signing up, but I’d had a good enough dose of it already thank you.

Feeling that I had to purge it from my head, and prefixing it with “I’m not going to be negative the whole way”, I expunged the story of when I was last here, wading through deep snow in a midnight storm.

Very different today.

Up up up and over, and up and over, a few times, and then we were starting the long descent past Greg’s hut and another rocky bloody road to Alston.

The miles kept ticking by. I kept eating, mostly Huel bars, they turned out to be almost perfect fuel. Not too sweet, packed with accessible carbs, and easy to get down. I didn’t get bored of them (unlike chocolate covered raisins, which I went off after the first mouthful).

As we neared the main road a familiar face leapt out from behind a sign. Only bloody Dave! We worked together a few years ago, actually not together but close enough to spend much time talking adventures by the water cooler. His wife Anne was there too and wow it was so nice to have a blast of familiarity and fresh smiling faces.

I hadn’t realised at the time but Chris had stopped eating a while ago, and was seriously struggling. To be honest I don’t think he knew at the time and it was only with hindsight that he figured out why he’d felt so totally ruined.

Neither of us was in any rush to get to the checkpoint, as weird as that sounds. With a limit of just 6 hours I was so against being awake during the zombie hour again I would rather lose race time than go through it again.

On the other hand lots of people had been banging on about lasagne, and it had been a long old tiring day. There was also pretty believable reports of showers and warm beds (the first since we’d started) which did sway our anti zombie meters a bit.

I’d resolved to try and nudge the aid station towards extra time, with all sorts of clever ideas about them not writing my arrival time down straight away, to the plain old “ah it’ll be fine if I’m here a bit longer eh?”. Nope, I was deposited on the outside step, with my pack and essentials, in my bare feet, at 3:02am – exactly 6 hours from when I arrived.

No hard feelings, and it wasn’t raining, but yeah, nice try.

Chris waited patiently while I sorted myself out, a cup of jam filled porridge quietly distracting him. We hadn’t explicitly arranged to team up, but it just felt very obvious to and I was reminded of the winter race where I’d headed off at this point with Dan Connors and we’d stuck together for the rest of the distance. Our pace was similar, and the ability to have a laugh most of the time rather than sink into painful introspection was the perfect way to make this as positive an experience as possible.

The sun came up, we walked and jogged over some moors, dodged some rain and almost before we knew it were hiking up onto Hadrian’s wall.

Someone was gaining on us, but not quite catching up. We got a good look and decided that “they didn’t look very happy”. Eventually Ade caught us up, as we caught Ellie, and sort of set off together, though they were solidly “not very happy” whilst we were more than chipper but seriously in need of some sort of sustenance.

“How far to the next aid station?”
“About 20 miles mate”
“What?!”

Ade (now known as “Ade Station”) looked so crestfallen I couldn’t help but laugh.

“There is a cafe about half a mile off the trail about 6 miles ahead though, but no other water stops till Bellingham”

Poor lad, but I’m glad I’d asked before we left Alston, it’s not nice to have nasty surprises like that. We had hoped for a big fat breakfast in Greenhead but nothing was open, so the joy at finding a little van selling coffee and snacks in the car park near the turning for Twice Brewed was very real.

A traditionally grumpy Scot sold us one each of everything he had, gave us hot water for our food and sent us off with some free energy bars. Such a treat and we didn’t even leave the trail. Fully powered up we picked up the pace with a plan to get to the checkpoint around 6pm.

Neither of us wanted to get there that early, but with just one more section ahead the end was within smelling distance. Not really, it was at least 50 miles away, but we were feeling good and sprightly and made the most of it.

Ellie caught us just in time to negotiate a huge herd of cows (I’d seen her take massive detours around others earlier in the week). There was no way I was going to add unnecessary distance so ploughed through the middle of them keeping up a constant stream of friendly chatter.

“Thanks girls, coming though, mind your babies, that’s right move aside, thank you.”

No dramas.

The day was by now a familiar pattern. Leave somewhere. Get up on a moor for ages. Drop down somewhere after about 20 miles. Get water and if lucky some food. Climb up onto something for another 20 odd miles. Drop down and painfully cover the last few miles to a checkpoint.

As we walked in the last mile or so, Ellie was deliberating whether to sleep and risk being overtaken by Sharon Gayter (ultrarunning legend) in third place, or to push on after a brief pit stop.

All I could think about was sleep, and I’d been doing a lot more of it than Ellie had. Sleep deprivation is truly horrible and I’d been getting as much as I could (which ended up being about 9 hours in total, not much!).

Ellie was asking for advice, but I was clearly the wrong person to advise on sleep denial, so I used the future self approach.

“Fast forward to yourself 5 or 6 weeks from now. If you look back and are annoyed with yourself for not just pushing on, then there is your answer”.

Part of her ploy was to put pressure on Sharon and hopefully get her to ease off and get some sleep (even though she’d told Ellie that this race was sleep deprivation training for reclaiming her John O’Groats to Lands end record).

Anyway it paid off and Ellie literally staggered her way to a second place finish in 120 hours and 35 minutes.

A few short hours later Chris and I were on the move, a midnight start and the final big push. Still lots of mileage to go and the Cheviots to tackle, along with the emotional baggage I would realise I was carrying late that day.

Right now though I tucked in behind and yawning whilst chucking back caffeine gels we got up onto yet another moor, this one dark and misty for a bit of summer novelty.

Coming down towards a road crossing there was a light ahead, which seemed to be coming towards us. Someone was on the trail, wtf.

“Bit of a god forsaken hour to be out on the hill eh mate?”

I got closer and realised it was only bloody Angus! He’d driven down from Edinburgh!

I’m getting emotional just writing about it, I was genuinely touched, it wasn’t just that my emotions had stopped working properly by then.

Massive covid unfriendly hugs and he joined us for a little way while we chatted and caught up with all things spine race and our respective families.

Having done the Scottish island peaks race a couple of times we’d had plenty of good bonding time, not to mention several long forays in the Lake District retracing the footsteps of a certain Mr B Graham.

It was getting light and Angus had three children to get ready for school not to mention a long day lawyering for a multinational bank, after starting his day at 1am.

What a bloody hero.

Hugely bouyed and very awake now we skipped over the last bit of moor (hurrah!) and climbed up into a huge pine forest, the last part before the Cheviots.

After a brief savaging by John Bamber’s midgie hordes we marched on filling our bellies with hot rehydrated mac & cheese and contemplated the final big push ahead.

It was 7ish by now and it looked like it was going to be a lovely day. Probably a bit too lovely for 20 odd miles without shade but we had some water and it would just have to be enough. Only a few hours till KY (as it was now known, thanks to the medics at Bellingham, made me laugh every time).

Hut 1 delivered a lovely surprise of water and hot coffee, worth a sit down for sure. The volunteers didn’t seem very happy, maybe it was something we said, but when Robert appeared from around the corner and set off, we fell about laughing.

“OMG, we’ve overtaken that guy so many times! What the actual fuck!”
“Oh yeah Bobby Cullen? He’s a machine, does it every time – doesn’t sleep and just keeps on going, this must be his 5th spine”.

Machine? He’s a goddam trail ninja is what he is!

Chris pulled ahead by the time we got towards hut 2, partly as he was chasing a sub 5 (days) but mostly because I massively slowed down to contemplate the scene of many nightmares and a probable dose of PTSD.

Everything is so much nicer in the sun it’s true, not buried under hillocks of snow with monsters lurking in every shadowy blemish. I was surprised how strong the emotional memories were, and sat down for a while to contemplate the whole thing.

You can really see how the snow drifts here, there are huge gaps with deep heathery fringes that would trap anything. Coupled with reasonably high altitude (for the UK) and exposed sides, it was just perfect for making human sized traps.

It was good for me to see it again, I realised that we’d done incredibly well to drag ourselves up that crazy steep slope, no wonder it took hours. Then when I almost ended up in Hell (Hen) Hole, and Colin actually did, it was clear I’d just made a bad decision and it really wasn’t life threatening, I had just been really really tired.

Snapping back to reality and my sore feet, there was still 7 miles to cover and I’d had enough now. Eating the remainder of what I’d packed last night, which by this stage was caffeine gels and shot blocks, munching on pain killers I decided to leg it and see how early I could get in. It was only early afternoon which meant that pints in the pub later was most definitely ON!

Of course my body had other ideas, despite my head feeling more suited to a nightclub than a sunny hillside.

My right shin had been a bit achy since the long descent on a rocky forest road early that morning, and had slowly gotten more achy through the day. Now it just gave up and cramped. Cramp in my shin? This was a new one. A really bloody painful new experience.

What would you do? What could I do? I spoke to it that’s what. Spoke nicely and stroked and massaged it. I told it about how well it had done and how we were all tired and sore now. I listed the lovely things that waited just down the road for us, lots of rest, food and massage. It just needed to keep it together and we’d all soon be able to sit down and not get up again until we wanted to.

Of course it worked. Why ever would you think it wouldn’t.

I don’t know why it does, but I’ve done that a few times over the years with different muscles. The best theory I have is that by focusing my attention on the area that needs it triggers my brain to send in whatever reinforcements are required to sort the problem out.

In much the same way that I don’t know how to move my hand, but if I focus on what I want it to do then it just happens, somehow. It’s clearly not magic, and it works for me so I’m going with it. As bonkers as it sounds.

Sprint finish and over the line in 119 hours and 48 minutes. 14th place. Very happy.

A surprise shower near the finish line, a plate of food and two bowls of oh so delicious fruit salad, then I dumped my kit in the village hall and hit the local with Chris.

What a way to finish the week. This was no 4am dark and miserable end, with nobody to meet us and just a bowl of nasty soup and a cold floor. This was glorious lager and seats and crisps.

That was magic.

Guess who else was there? Oh yes, ninja Bobby!

The aftermath was surprisingly benign. Yes I was tired for a couple of weeks and had to sneak off for afternoon naps at work. It took me over a week to have a decent nights sleep and not keep waking up thinking I was on the trail .

My weight and body fat took a pleasing tumble, despite constant snacking, and I’m losing toenails every few days.

Oh my hips are a bit stiff, but I didn’t even have DOMS. Weird but I’ll take it.

One thing is for sure: I don’t have any desire to return to the Pennine Way again, I’ve made my peace with it and have more than enough memories now. I’m glad I got to see it in the daylight, there are some truly beautiful parts and they’re well worth a visit.

Of course if they did a race from north to south, that would be a different thing altogether…

https://www.strava.com/activities/5527447189

The hidden secrets of 24 hour track races

Articles

Originally published in issue 11 of https://www.ultra-magazine.com

I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry, it’s quite normal.

24 hours is a long time to run, a 400 meter loop isn’t very far, the combination doesn’t make any logical sense. Only suitable for misfits and weirdos.

When you picture running an ultra, you see mountains, adventure, solitude in remote valleys, companionship on stormy peaks at 2 in the morning.

“I am physically capable of doing one”, you’re thinking, “yet with so much of the world still to see, so many unconquered summits, why should I squander my time and effort running in circles? Everyone would think I’ve totally lost the plot.”

“They wouldn’t understand. I don’t understand”

I’m here to tell you that there is so much more to it than you might think.

I accept that there are no mountains or breathtaking scenery, but are those the reasons you started running in the first place? Or are they a pleasant addition to something you love?

Bear with me and I’ll explain that it’s not just the preserve of the completely unhinged or international elites, there’s space for you and me too.

The concept of a 24 hour running race isn’t new

In fact people have been taking part in them for decades. Ottawa in Canada have been hosting one since 1981.

The current world record was set in 1997 by Greek running god Yiannis Kouros. He ran just over 188 miles (303K) on the track in Adelaide, Australia. There isn’t enough space on his Wikipedia page to list all his mind altering records, but don’t let that put you off. Let’s look a bit closer to home.

Why do you run? Why does anyone run?

Cast your mind back to those first few self-conscious steps, the start of a journey to lose some weight, to counterbalance the chaos of daily life, an attempt to slow the pace of the inexorable slide of cellular aging.

It was painful at first, but the hard earnt aches and endorphin fuelled satisfaction easily made up for that. Before long your ancient shoes were soon replaced with a much more serious pair, the cotton t-shirt turned into something technical, whatever that meant.

The results came surprisingly quickly, endowing you with a firm lean body and clear head. The new you faced life with head held high, everything was much more manageable after a blast round the park.

After a while your local routes weren’t holding quite the same appeal and the superhuman athletes you kept reading about in your (increasingly obsessive) trawl of race reports became an enigma, becoming harder and harder to stop thinking about.

At some point you think to yourself:

“I’ve run a marathon, of course there’s no way I can run 100 miles, but maybe 50. That’s not even double my longest run, I’ll just go slow and see how I get on.”

The lure of the challenge and associated superhero status takes hold, and before you know it …

Bam! Wine glass in hand, you’ve signed up for your first ultra

You love and hate the build up, every time you picture yourself on the start line your stomach does a somersault, but the questions of kit, food and navigation consume many happy hours on the internet. Your excel skills improve with all the lists and pace calculators, who knew there would be so many benefits!

Race day arrives, and nervously looking around on the start line you realised you’re carrying way too much / not nearly enough food / kit / maps / lube, but it’s too late and you’re off, trying not to get too carried away and keeping an eye on your watch.

The race itself is a blur of mud / hills / rivers / forests / canals, you forget about your carefully planned stash of food and binge on crisps and sweets from the aid stations, you make new best friends, discover the perils of running with a belly full of junk food and learn to do what bears do, in the bushes.

Everything is a bit sore afterwards, who knew your inner arse checks can build up such a chafe factor that you actually scream in the shower, but the elation floats you into work on Monday on a cloud of glory.

Nobody notices that you can’t walk properly as you regale the mortals with your epic feats of endurance, framed by the deep human compassion uncovered from rescuing someone who’d collapsed just before the finish line. Someone even cries a little bit.

You haven’t smiled as much since you lost your virginity.
You blog the race report and post it on Facebook, the likes come rolling in.

Fast forward four months and all your toenails have fallen off, but you’ve signed up for another race and are just about to start negotiating with your better half when they find your bag of rotting race kit. First things first, and you know they won’t deny you your new passion. Especially when you reciprocate with a weekend of looking after the kids on your own.

Life is good, the universe of ultra racing adventures has welcomed you into its domain, you’ve even got your own page on Statistik DUV.

And life is good

There’s a bit more juggling and negotiating but you find an inner strength that wasn’t there before, at the very least you’re much less reliant on a good night’s sleep. How bad can a Monday morning be when you’ve successfully navigated through the French alps on your own, in the dark, with a broken torch, and only owl droppings for sustenance?

So why would you turn to 24h track races? Why, when there are countless far more exciting and beautiful routes and races out there?

Maybe your new found food obsession needs a testing ground, somewhere with convenient (and flushing) toilets.

Maybe taking a whole weekend away from the family is trickier, now that you want to do it once a month, and all that travelling does take a toll on the wallet.

Maybe you’ve become intrigued by how fast you could go without any obstacles and a heavy pack on your back, to be able to compare your performance across different races and conditions.

Maybe your family will come and cheer you on, they might even pitch a tent and have an adventure of their own.

Or maybe, just maybe, you fancy something completely different

You’ll still get all the good stuff of course, the chafing, the crisps and sweets, the delicious pain that comes just before serenity.

You’ll still make new best friends, only this time they won’t be just the people who happen to run at the same pace as you. Even the fastest runners have time for a chat every now and then. Who knows, it might even be you slowing down for a few laps to give someone else a mental boost.

Granted there might not be that much to look at, but you won’t get lost, providing you don’t wander off looking for a Macdonald’s.

If it all gets a bit too much, don’t despair! Have a cup of hot soup, a hug and a lie down. No DNFs here, just head back out when you’re ready, or don’t. The race finishes at the same time for everybody.

“Ah, but, yeah, but, no, but … It’s a mental game this isn’t it? Psychological torture I’ve been told, time slows down, you go mad?”

I hear you. I won’t deny it, all true. But, how is that different from any other ultra? You can allow the inner demons into the forefront of your mind on any long run. Anyone can do the death march, it’s nothing special and we’ve all been there.

“Yes but, surely it’s really boring?”

That, my friend, is the first good question you’ve asked. Before I answer it, because I can tell you’re not convinced, you should ask some others why they think it’s such a good idea, but that takes time, so I did it for you.

Robbie Britton, more first place medals than you can fit in a rucksack:

“It’s truly about how far you can run in a day with as few variables as you can.

It can often be a mental battle from the start and it’s not about overcoming a low point, but constantly convincing yourself that the effort is worth it, when you reach the finish line at the same time as everyone else, regardless of speed.

I love it and dislike it rather strongly at the same time.”

Paul Katsiva-Corderoy, no stranger to track or trail:

“On the track there is always someone watching and cheering (read motivating) you.”

Pam Storey, RD of the Crawley 6, 12 & 24h track races:

“I have done 15 of the ‘beasts’ … you are never more than 400m from help.”

Markus Mueller has a simple and insightful view:

“It’s just you and your running shoes. The nice thing is that you don’t have to be fast but consistence gets you very far.”

Anonymous:

“Auto qualifier for spartathlon”

Mark Cockbain, RD of The Viking Way and other brutally minimal ultras:

“Just to see how far and fast you can go with no x-factors (terrain or conditions)”

Stuart Shipley, survivor of the Spine Race and many others:

“…a cheap weekend in London parking the camper on the track and eating every 400m”

Thomas Bubendorfer, an Austrian with a penchant for long Irish races:

“In a mountain point to point race you will most likely be running entirely on your own for hours and hours, barely seeing anyone else. A 24 hours race is highly sociable and you’ll have chats with dozens of runners”

Noanie Heffron, who seems to place in the top 3 of every race she runs:

“My first 24hr was on a 4 mile loop, I didn’t much fancy it but was talked into it, furthest I’d run at that point was 50 miles, thought it would be a nice ‘safe’ way to run a bit further, secretly thought I’d hate it but turned out I loved it. Entered a 24hr track next on the logical assumption that condensing the loop would obviously cause the essence of the event to become super concentrated, like squeezing a lump of coal to get a diamond. And I was right!”

Pretty convincing stuff don’t you think?

Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten you’re still worried about it being boring

Consider this with an open mind, because you are open minded aren’t you, apart from hokas and marmite? It’s a prerequisite to throwing yourself at the mercy of any unknown adventure.

What is boredom exactly? Possibly a bit hard to define objectively, but one could say that it’s a feeling of lethargy brought on from a lack of internal or external stimulus.

The week in the middle of childhood summer holidays when everyone you know has gone away? Midway through a long journey with nothing to read, drink, watch, or talk to (animate objects of course, you can always talk to your shoes, if that’s your thing)?

My simple answer to your excellent question is …

When have you ever been bored whilst running?

Tired? Yes.
Desperate for it to be over? Many times. Hungry? Nearly always.
In pain? Too often.

Fed up of being on your own? Check.
Fed up with being in a crowd? Yup.
Fed up that time has slowed down so much that every step on the treadmill takes an age? Of course.

Bored? Truly truly bored? Mind numbingly, lie on the floor, dribbling, staring into space bored? Never.
(Apart from the lying down dribbling bit).

If anything you develop a fondness for the track, and an acute awareness of everything going on in and around it. Details that would otherwise pass you by become, captivating.

There’s a new lap counter, they look nice, I wonder what their name is. That bird, I can’t see it but, gosh, what a beautiful sound, maybe I’ll spot it on the next lap.

Oh wait, is that a lost hedgehog?

I hope that cleared things up, dispelled a few myths, uncovered a few secrets. Perhaps I even went a bit overboard and you’re thinking that 24 hours of loops isn’t going to be enough.

Did you know that 6 day track races are a thing?

No? Ok, let’s leave that for another time, sorry I mentioned it. Now you know, you can’t forget it, just saying.

There is one more thing before I finish, possibly the single most compelling reason so far, and one that until this point has evaded discussion.

It is of course: The Zone.

I’m pretty sure you know it, elusive and yet attainable, if you know what it needs. It can’t be chased down or forced, but when the conditions are right you don’t realise you were there until afterwards.

Calm and peaceful, you’re simultaneously hyper aware of your entire body yet floating through the air effortlessly. Everything moving in a perfect rhythm and harmony. Nothing distracts you, there is no pain, just your whole self, flowing along an exquisitely perfect trajectory, never stumbling, never taking a less than optimal path.

You could run all day

(Until you get hungry.)

I still don’t know the exact formula to be able to get there on demand. Sometimes it happens the day after a night of beer and pizza, sometimes only when I finally accept the screaming suffering of my body, slipping into the peaceful haven beyond it.

What I do know is that there is a reason why Sri Chinmoy tagged his races with the words Self Transcendence. There is something about a flat loop that sets up the right conditions almost perfectly. Provided you allow yourself to relax and dampen the voice that is moaning and chattering about what a daft idea this was.

For me, that’s really the number one reason for doing a 24h track race. I didn’t realise it would be, but after prolonged reflection I’m convinced, I hope you are too.

But before you reach for the Tooting entry form …

Here are a few words of warning from 5 time GB representative Debbie Martin-Consani:

“People are drawn to the race concept because of the perceived simplicity. It’s flat and very super slow, so how hard can it be? In reality it’s probably one of the toughest ultra races. It requires a high level of mental toughness – and stubbornness.

Many great athletes can run 100 or 150 miles in a race, but don’t have the head for 24 hour running. Without the drive of checkpoints or a finish line it’s hard to keep going. The clock keeps ticking regardless of what pace you’re doing.

Yet people see big distances run by athletes they compete with in other races and want to give it a shot. Often thinking they can run further, because the courses aren’t physically demanding. Unfortunately that bravado often doesn’t see them through 12 hours! 24 hour runners are a weird bunch of zombies really.”

So there you have it, the full picture

If you really want nice scenery, then head to the Lake District. Set off from Keswick towards Skiddaw at midnight, catch the sunrise on the top of Blencathra. Make yourself a cup of hot chocolate, sit back and admire the splendour of nature.

Slow down and talk to your companions, not everything has to be a race. Don’t travel to the far corners of the world for an event where you spend the whole time looking at your feet.

If you want to test yourself, in an environment specifically designed for a person to travel as far and as fast as they can under their own power. Somewhere with no physical obstacles, nowhere to get lost, loads of support, and a table chock full of goodies.

If you want to see just what you’re really made of …

Then head to the track

You’re guaranteed a PB.

Autumn 100, 2018 – Race Report

race

Normally I start these reports with something going badly or something unpleasant happening, but this was one of those oh-so rare races when everything came together in a really good way.

Sometimes it happens in training, and when it does you always desperately try and figure out what the magic formula was.

Sadly I don’t know – I never manage to work it out – but I did have a great day, a much better day than I expected and definitely made the most of it.

It still feels strange to think that I ran 100 miles and can honestly say that it didn’t feel like that much of a big deal, even more so given I’d pretty much missed the entire previous year of events from injury.

I hadn’t prepared for this race specifically. Had no real idea of the terrain or elevation, and had just thrown a load of stuff into my bag the night before, in the hope that by this stage in the Centurion 100 mile Grand Slam I should subconsciously know what I’d need.

A slightly nervous shuffle of kit and food on the train to Reading, but happily everything I needed was present and correct. All I needed was to pick up my pre-booked Tailwind from race HQ (what a great service from the Centurion online shop!) and I was all set.

The format of this race was a bit different. All the others I’ve done this year have been point to point, which are nice as you get to see (or maybe just experience) a decent stretch of the countryside. This was 4 out and backs, which meant less variation, but with the bonus that your whole drop bag was accessible every 25 miles. It also made calculating how long it was until the next checkpoint joyously easy.

About 20 minutes before kickoff it started pouring with rain, but thankfully it decided to give us a break just before the start and a blazing hot sun came out instead.

It was October, so I’d quite sensibly packed warm and waterproof clothes (which I was very glad of having later on), but getting sunburnt before lunchtime most unexpected.

Walking to the start line I had a good chat with Jon Fielden, outside of Strava I think this was the first time we’ve actually met in person, though I did see him at the Tooting 24h when I was lap counting for Jamie Holmes and a couple of others. Nice to meet internet friends in person!

I had some weird pacing plan, not based on reality, but instead on a 20 hour finish, and so I set off at a 4h marathon pace into the increasingly warm day.

This was not sustainable, and even with frequent water refills it was a “bit” of an effort to get back to Goring in a smidge over 4 hours At that point I pretty much ignored my plans and set off with the idea to run as fast as I could at a pace that I thought I could probably sustain, allowing for a bit of a slowdown, and hopefully a final kick in the last few miles.

This was how I’d run the other events this year, and I really don’t know why I’d decided to try something different.

Cat Simpson (winner of so many races) filled up my water bottles, I was too shy to say anything, but this is a great example of how nice the running community often is, where champions turn up to events like this and help others out where they can.

No race is complete without some kit faffage

The lovely lady who not only told me where I could buy a nice coffee but also gave me some money deserves a special mention too.

Leg 2 was quite hilly and a little bit technical in places, the wide open fields were quite soft though and some time was made up there. Plenty of chatty people on the first half of this and time went by quickly.

Can’t remember if I had anything hot to eat back at Goring, but it was a pretty quick turnaround, and munching a bag of crisps I headed out into the dark (?) and towards the Ridgeway. Bit damp in places, but having my waterproof jacket in the big pocket of my pack meant it was on and over everything before I got cold (I saw James Elson do this at Country to Capital a few years ago, great trick). Somehow managed to do something weird to my headtorch just before the halfway point, so lost a few miunutes faffing around with it, before setting back off downhill to Goring, again.

I swung into the aid station half way for a quick bit of chat and to top up my tailwind supply, it was raining again and we all wondered why we were wearing shorts.

As I left I heard them say “that’s the way to do it”. In and out in under 2 minutes, very unlike the van full of people I could see huddling together out of the wind. I don’t move all that fast, but I reckon must gain a few places at every CP just because I don’t hang around (or eat anything – I have a deep suspicion of any food that might have had someone else’s dirty hands on it).

Back in Goring I briefly spoke to Debbie Martin-Consani (who was there to pace Sharon Law who finished in 19:24 and second lady), but I was a bit ultra-addled by that point and didn’t manage much more than a brief smile, such shame to waste another rare opportunity to say a proper hello to an internet friend.

Turbo was all set to pace me for the last marathon, and by this point I was really glad of some company. I hadn’t had any dark spots, and had been quietly trundling along, but after 15 hours mostly inside my own head it was good to have a friend to share the hardest part of the race with. We had lots to talk about as we set off along the Thames Path to Reading – the last out and back.

Also a lot of mud and rain. A huge amount of rain.

Turbo was great, she kept my pace up, took care of timings and as Olly had been doing, just became my brain for the next 5 hours.

I was getting cold just before the woods outside reading, but a brisk uphill hike sorted that out. It had got light by this point and someone was coming up behind us. With Ollys competitive spirit ringing in my ears I bounded off into the mud and picked up a few more places before slowing down into a steady jog. Turbo caught me up with a “don’t worry, you broke them, you can take it easy now!”. We laughed but with furtive looks over our shoulders kept the pace nice and chipper for the last mile.

Over the finish line in 21:36, in 30th place overall (out of 230 starters).

SUPER happy!

5th hundred miler of the year, the final piece of the Centurion Grand Slam, and a PB to boot. Lots of smiles.

Even though I didn’t eat much more than gels, a packet of saucisson and a couple of bags of crisps, the tailwind from the CPs along with the extra 4 sachets I’d bought did me perfectly well. Not once did I feel lacking in energy and nothing hurt or complained (apart from my shoulder, a swimming injury which I don’t think had any right to make a fuss on a run).

My stomach must have shut down though, as it instantly rejected the finish line hot dog, too much too soon maybe.

I probably could have gone faster with hindsight, but feel very happy that everything came together well, and recovery was equally smooth. Slightly sore quads for a day or so (my training didn’t involve any hills, I really should study course profiles a little better). Even my feet were fine, mostly because of the nice soft grass, compared to the gnarl of the North Downs.

The race was organised very well, and everything certainly seemed to go very smoothly. No fuss, helpful and efficient volunteers, excellent markings and fair and reasonable cut off times.

Everything we’ve come to expect from Centurion events, and if anything they just keep getting better. Really impressive.

https://www.strava.com/activities/1904528445

North Downs Way 100, 2018 – Race Report

race

I’m not sure if skimpy running shorts are ever appropriate to wear in public, but the prospect of 30 degree heat without wind, meant all modest thoughts were discarded along with my usual “100 mile” leggings.

Christian agreed, so at least I wasn’t the only one flashing gleaming white thighs at the Farnham locals at 5am on Saturday morning.

Given the race started at 6am I didn’t have much choice other than to go down the night before and stay in a hotel. I had dinner with Zoe and got the train from Waterloo. All fine and easy.

I’d booked a twin room, as I had before the South Downs Way, so that I could use the other bed to put kit on and faff around without having to put everything on the floor. The hotel was … horrible. Everything looked dirty and very old and worn out. I could hear people chattering in the next room, and it was also about 29 degrees with (obviously) no air conditioning. Needless to say I didn’t sleep particularly well, but I did sleep, eventually.

In a bid to have a half decent breakfast (at 4:30am, well before the hotel started producing edibles, if it even did), I’d packed a dehydrated meal. Great idea in principle, but the chilli was surprisingly spicy, and whilst it was an unexpectedly pleasant breakfast, it wasn’t really what my stomach was calling for.

Having got all my kit shuffling out of the way the night before, it was easy to fill water bottles and wander slowly to the race HQ, where I quickly got my pack checked, dumped my drop bags and got in the queue for another coffee.

Christian was there, sporting an impressive beard and looking very trim and much fitter than I felt. It was nice to chat to a friend whilst waiting for the actual start, rather than my usual routine of standing around failing to find someone to shoot the breeze with, and generally feeling a bit left out. One day I’ll just start talking to someone who looks just as lost, and maybe we’ll have enough to share to fill the dead time before James gets his megaphone out.

I fell in with Christians pace at the start, and we spent some very nice hours talking about … everything. We often have lunch together, but never really talk about the Big Important Things. Time went by quickly.

Given my lack of training (virtually non existent), I kept up much longer than I probably should have, until the rapid temperature increase forced me to peel off and try and sort myself out.

Christian loped off looking confident and relaxed, while I walked and jogged and slowly found a pace I could just about maintain without overheating.

Marissa, the ultra-junkie that she is, had set up a mini aid station on Reigate Hill (32 miles in), with bags of ice, cold coke and frozen calipos. I could have spent an hour there easily, getting my core body temperature down to some sensible level, but race pressure exerted itself and I was on my way quick-sharp, body packed in ice, brain finally working again.

That was easily the nicest part of the entire race, the relief of ice cold water and lollies after feeling that I’d been transported onto a desert was exquisite, and I really had to drag myself away, thankfully it was down a hill.

Many more hours and miles and water and gels passed. There were some ups, some downs, the occasional chat.

One or two dark moments where I was reduced to a sullen trudge, over rocky paths through endless featureless fields.

Eventually it got dark and I didn’t feel that I was going to be sick on my shoes, or that my heart was going to escape, every time I moved from an amble to a slow jog.

Staggering alongside the M25 as it bridged something too far away to distinguish, I lost the valve of a water bottle. I went back to try and find it among the litter and bits of car and lorry that had collected in the gutter. A quizzical text from Olly roused a sliver of rationality and pulled me out of my foggy stagger.

Blinking, I pointing myself the right way, and annoyed with the loss of time, picked up the pace and headed for the Bluebell Hill checkpoint where my exogenous brain / pacer / all round awesome looker-after-er type person waited.

Sit down.

Have you eaten anything?

Thought not, right, what do you want?

Anything that doesn’t look like it’s been rummaged through by someones arse scratching hand

Right.

Still fucking weird, aren’t you?

Is it cold? I can’t tell, I might need sleeves…

Cheese and ham thrust into my hand, fine.

My stomach didn’t think that much of it, but the rest of me did and off we set into the darkness for the final 26 miles, with Ashford and the finish line slowly pulling us in.

Everything was just so much easier now. My brain was fully functioning, and was managing to instruct my legs to keep up with Olly, whilst simultaneously talking about all sorts of shite (and also listening to much of the same).

I didn’t worry a jot about the trivialities now. Navigation, how far there was to go, whether to eat or not (not, generally). Delegated, the lot of it.

Marvelous.

The trail went through some surprisingly technical sections, plus lots of steps and tangles of brambles. Sub 24 hours was starting to look worryingly out of reach.

Suddenly the uncomfortable trail relinquished us onto beautiful smooth paths and we flew past people as picked up pace for the final push.

Down through some fields then barreled our way into town, with only an occasional moan about sore feet, and crossed the line in 23 hours and 40 minutes.

Slower than I’d hoped, but the main goal was less than 24 hours, so very happy with that.

Christian was waiting for us, very relaxed and stately in his armchair and showing way too much leg for this time of the day. Turns out he only beat us by 5 minutes, so my “I’m coming for you Gnodtket” mantra had obviously magically slowed him down and sped me up. It certainly stopped me from dawdling.

Looking back, it was a really hot day, and I’m quite frankly amazed that I managed to keep up the sort of pace I did. There was a big section where I was feeling a bit gloomy and wasn’t really up for it, but generally I had a really good day out and, apart from my feet, nothing really hurt.

The lesson on food for me was that gels and tailwind don’t bother my stomach, but aren’t very exciting. I know, from lots of experience that when food is boring then it just doesn’t get eaten, but if I can get my head around that, then I’ll have enough energy and my stomach will be fine, which should be a good combination.

The organisation was, as ever, really slick and professional, and I recommend all Centurion events unhesitatingly.

https://www.strava.com/activities/1750622787

South Downs Way 100 – Race Report

race

I was expecting to find you hunched over your poles, headphones in, grinding through the dark miles with gritted teeth.

Are you sure you’ve just run 85 miles? I don’t think you’re supposed to be smiling.

This was my greeting from Olly as I came into the Southease checkpoint to find him tucking into the huge buffet laid out on the trestle tables. As is now usual I didn’t hang around and within 2 minutes we were hiking up the next steep ascent to pick up the now familiar rolling trails of the South Downs way.

I would have been smiling if I knew I was in Cocking

Apart from the blistering heat, and a recurring, searing, breathtaking pain in my left knee, it had been a nice and easy day. Plenty of friendly people to chat to, some cyclists to banter with (I kept overtaking the same ones on every uphill), and lots of well stocked aid stations to break up the miles.

It wasn’t as hot as it had been on the Thames Path, but there were still plenty of people falling by the vomit streaked wayside. There was less shade perhaps, the bulk of the route follows a high ridge without much tree cover. Also we weren’t far off the longest day of the year so the delicious cool of the night took an age to finally arrive.

Even then it wasn’t actually cold, apart from a brief chilly moment when I changed my vest for a t-shirt, and that was mostly because I’d been walking for a while as a concession to my complaining knee.

Just making it harder by keeping my eyes shut

I’d never had a pacer before, and this was Ollys first time pacing someone, so I think both of us were a little bit apprehensive about how it would work out. There was always work to fall back on; he recruits data scientists for a living, I am an aspiring one. So we could always bluff about how much statistics we knew and trade mutual acquaintance related gossip.

Thank goodness it didn’t come to that.

The nicest thing about having someone join me for the last 20 odd miles, was that I could pretty much turn my brain off and let them navigate and remind me to eat and drink. Also having someone to talk to was great. I might be a bit quiet at work sometimes (it’s called being focused, actually), but stick a pair of running shoes on me and I’ll talk the arse off a donkey (not that that’s a thing, but you get my point).

This was Ollys first proper night run too, so it was actually a proper adventure for him, not just an exercise in keeping me moving fast enough so he didn’t get too cold.

My knee pain was a mystery, it really had come out of nowhere and was ridiculously painful. Not the deep, sharp stabs of the red-hot needle of a stress fracture, nor the instantly disabling agony of a torn muscle.

I’d kept it under control for 15 hours with a mixture of friendly and understanding chatter and easy walking when it really made a fuss.

The talking aspect was bolstering my budding theory that one can strengthen the neural pathways involved in sorting out attention-seeking body parts without cadging drugs off strangers (how could I think that was a good idea?).

No, I reckon that by just thinking hard about the sore parts, and speaking to them out loud, you can encourage your brain to send whatever the rights things are needed to sort things out.

It certainly provides a form of distraction and can pass for a twisted sort of entertainment on very long runs.

Having a deep conversation with myself

I was patiently explaining this to Olly while we were on another pain induced walking break, when he just looked at me with his head tilted sideways (as anyone would look at a dusty simpleton, in a field, in the middle of the night) and interrupted with:

Mate, stop talking bollocks.

Your hamstring is tight, and it’s pulling that stretchy thing on the side of your leg, and that’s pulling some other thing which is making some knee bone-but-not-bone pieces rub together.

Which hurt like hell.

Stop and stretch, you’ll be fine, I promise you.

(It may have been more anatomically accurate, but that’s how I remember it).

No no no, I patiently admonished, you’re missing the point, it can’t be my hamstring, because…

Actually, he was right, of course he was right.

I might have found a way of dulling the pain to ignorable levels, but the cause was indeed my hamstring. I was too sleep deprived to be anything other than sheepishly grateful, and after a really long stretch at Alfriston (91 miles) we picked up the pace and flew along, banging out 11 minute miles to the finish line (they felt like 7 minute miles in my defence).

“Flying”

Done!

In terms of kit and food, I’m very happy with splashing out on a very fancy Salomon rucksack (“It’s not a bag, it’s a carrying solution”), which was really comfortable, could fit loads of food in the front pockets and after some initial fiddly faffing had easily refillable soft flasks.

Again, like the Thames Path 100, I didn’t eat very much, and again nothing from the aid stations apart from the hot food at the half way point. I’d rather carry more weight than risk eating what was on someones hands while they’d rummaged through the crisps, but then again I can be a bit OCD about that sort of thing.

I did get a bit bored of saucisson and flapjacks, so finding a bag of crunchy M&Ms in my final drop bag probably made my race.

Massive shout out to the Centurion crew for superb organisation, there were a lot of runners out on the trails, and keeping everyone safe and on course for (just under!) a hundred miles is a truly impressive achievement.

Champions!

https://www.strava.com/activities/1628930636

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Can I sit down now?

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jura runner

race reports from an accidental ultra runner

Author: jurarunner

Japan – 22nd October 2025

Self Transcendence 24 hour track race 2025 – Race Report

Afterthoughts

You can’t climb in ski boots, can you? – Silvretta Alps 6 day ski tour, 2025

Zero to hero? My “journey” to the Self Transcendence 24 hour track race, 2024

Sri Chimnoy 24 hour race (Battersea) 2021 – Race Report

The Summer Spine Race 2021 – Race Report

The hidden secrets of 24 hour track races

I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry, it’s quite normal.

The concept of a 24 hour running race isn’t new

Why do you run? Why does anyone run?

Bam! Wine glass in hand, you’ve signed up for your first ultra

And life is good

Or maybe, just maybe, you fancy something completely different

Robbie Britton, more first place medals than you can fit in a rucksack:

Paul Katsiva-Corderoy, no stranger to track or trail:

Pam Storey, RD of the Crawley 6, 12 & 24h track races:

Markus Mueller has a simple and insightful view:

Anonymous:

Mark Cockbain, RD of The Viking Way and other brutally minimal ultras:

Stuart Shipley, survivor of the Spine Race and many others:

Thomas Bubendorfer, an Austrian with a penchant for long Irish races:

Noanie Heffron, who seems to place in the top 3 of every race she runs:

Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten you’re still worried about it being boring

When have you ever been bored whilst running?

Oh wait, is that a lost hedgehog?

You could run all day

But before you reach for the Tooting entry form …

Here are a few words of warning from 5 time GB representative Debbie Martin-Consani:

So there you have it, the full picture

Then head to the track

Autumn 100, 2018 – Race Report

North Downs Way 100, 2018 – Race Report

South Downs Way 100 – Race Report

Afterthoughts

I know what you’re thinking, but don’t worry, it’s quite normal.

The concept of a 24 hour running race isn’t new

Why do you run? Why does anyone run?

Bam! Wine glass in hand, you’ve signed up for your first ultra

And life ​is​ good

Or maybe, just maybe, you fancy something completely different

Robbie Britton, more first place medals than you can fit in a rucksack:

Paul Katsiva-Corderoy, no stranger to track or trail:

Pam Storey, RD of the Crawley 6, 12 & 24h track races:

Markus Mueller has a simple and insightful view:

Anonymous:

Mark Cockbain, RD of The Viking Way and other brutally minimal ultras:

Stuart Shipley, survivor of the Spine Race and many others:

Thomas Bubendorfer, an Austrian with a penchant for long Irish races:

Noanie Heffron, who seems to place in the top 3 of every race she runs:

Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten you’re still worried about it being boring

When have you ever been bored whilst running?

Oh wait, is that a lost hedgehog?

You could run all day

But before you reach for the Tooting entry form …

Here are a few words of warning from 5 time GB representative ​Debbie Martin-Consani​:

So there you have it, the full picture

Then head to the track

And life is good

Here are a few words of warning from 5 time GB representative Debbie Martin-Consani: