Tooting 24h 2014 – or – How not to run your first 24 hour track race

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As usual it’s taken me far too long to get this written down, but with the Crawley 12 hour race in a few weeks I thought this was the perfect time to remember what I did wrong. It would be nice to have a list of things I did right, but sadly, no. I still managed to cover about 107 miles, which isn’t bad but falls short of what I think I should be capable of (although past performance isn’t nessesarily an indicator of the future!). The race itself is very simple (how many times can you run round a 400m track?), and is a perfect example of everything I love in an event. It’s small, extremely well organised by incredibly friendly and approachable people. The low key approach engenders a great atmosphere and the motley collection of runners were packed with interesting stories and enthusiasm. Being able to run shoulder to shoulder with a 80+ year old on course to complete 100 miles, and a trio of superhuman ladies who smashed records and crushed the entry level for team GB Ultra was both humbling and inspirational. This is a true, and (mostly) serious list of tips for running your first 24 hour track race. Some, if not all of the points are totally obvious, and normal people really shouldn’t need the advice.

I’m no elite

Make sure you actually have a place in the race

Yes, yes, obvious. The thing is, I sent my application off and promptly got stuck into training and planning. As the weeks went on, and I languished on the waiting list, the mental focus that an imminent race gives you just wasn’t there. This meant that training was half hearted at best, and I figured that I’d pretty much wing the planning part: running in circles for ages: I’d just done the GUCR, how hard could it be?

If you don’t have a confirmed place, then at least pretend you have and train accordingly. Finding out two days before doesn’t give you nearly enough time.

One chap even turned up on the day and snagged a last minute place, though he crashed out in a bent-double vomiting state after a short few hours. Another arrow in the back of the last minute race entrant.

Don’t start the day with a massive hangover

Again, not something that should really need to be spelled out. However, the lack of concentration and general over confidence given #1, plus having heavy drinking friends round the night before culminated in a very not-ready head and body come race morning.

It’s hard to say whether this is the biggest mistake I made, quite possibly though, as it led to most of the others.

Work out your target pace sensibly, based on reality

Final results

For an elite athlete, calculating your goal distance using last year’s winner is a very good strategy, particular if you’re also aiming to secure a place in Team GB.

If, on the other hand, you are not an elite, and last year’s winner was other worldly Marco Consani, who covered 154 miles, then your sights have more than likely been set far outside the range of your physical capabilities.

In practice this means that you’re constantly berating yourself for going too slow, when in fact you’re going about twice as fast as you should be.

I would say to pick a comfortable marathon pace, then drop that by about 25%, probably more.

Don’t set off too fast

Lack of planning, large hangover and ridiculous ambitions and yes, you’re already going way too fast. I did the first marathon in under 4 hours, was near the top of the score board and felt great.

Obviously it didn’t last and my pace halved very soon after.

Having a bleary eyed notion of “go out as hard as possible and hang on as long as you can” is just daft, glycogen gets instantly depleted leaving you running on fumes way too soon.

If you’ve lapped James Elson, you’re going too quickly

Say no more!

To be fair to James, he looked to be suffering from an injury and pulled out before the end. Plus I was clearly going to blow up.

Don’t try new food on the day, as lovely as it might look and taste

Hangover to blame again. I remember thinking how delicious the melon and grapes on the food station were. They were cool, refreshing and gave me a nice little boost.

Fast forward 10 hours and I’d pretty much set up camp in the men’s room, and when I wasn’t there I was painfully dragging my sore and bloated belly back as fast as I could hobble.

Not a good idea.

Do try and remember your lap counters name

More generally, be nice to your lap counter, they’ve got a long gruelling night ahead of them, and sense of humour failures don’t make for a pleasant atmosphere.

Chances are they are looking after a few runners, and when a lap only takes a couple of minutes they’re hard at work.

On the odd occasion when they are distracted, being able to call our their name will save you valuable seconds, and is a whole lot polite than yelling “Did you get me? Luke here, hello?! HELLO!”

Having support really… helps

My wife and child stuck around for the first half hour, but when my 3 year old daughter had seen me run round in circles and not win or even finish, she soon got bored. Not before entertaining everyone with happy shouts of “daddy!” every time I passed her.

They also rocked up again for the last hour, and that alone kept my spirits up for at least 4 hours.

Other people had whole families camped out all night, feeding and watering their runners regularly. Not sure how I’ll persuade mine to do the same, but I think it would give a massive psychological boost, especially in those famously miserable hours just before dawn.

Don’t underestimate the mental aspect

I honestly hadn’t given much thought to what it would actually be like running for 24 hours within such a confined area.

All the big races I’d done in the past were huge loops or “epic adventure” point to point routes.

The key difference, which was obviously clear to every person who commented on my upcoming loop fest, is that every step forward, every second spent moving, takes you one tiny sliver closer to the end.

When it finally dawned on me that I could just sit down and the race would still end at midday, regardless of whether I did any sort of moving or not, was a revelation.

A revelation that took a lot of willpower (and two 30 minute snoozes in the back of Hughs car) to purge and get back into any kind of constant forward motion.

In summary

It was a lot harder than I thought it would be, deserved more respect than I gave it, and was absolutely bloody brilliant.

I’ve got a confirmed place for September, so that’s one item ticked off the list already!

Geoff, the legend

Scottish Islands Peaks Race – DNF!

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The Scottish Islands Peaks Race (SIPR) – DNF – Report

It’s 2015 and this is something I’ve been meaning to write for a while, partly because it was great fun, but also because it’s nice to share amazing experiences. Anyway, given that we’re having another crack at it this year I thought if I jotted down some notes from our last attempt, it might give us a helping hand. Let’s see.

The trouble started long before race day. Finding a sailing crew was easy, finding a running partner turned out to involve what is best described as blind dating, ultra-runner style.

First up was an old friend who’d been threatening to join me on a hilly outing for months. A sub three hour marathon under his belt gave me a touch of ability anxiety, but I reckoned I could take him on anything involving a load of mud and slippery rocks.

For some unfathomable reason he decided to take his family and (re) emigrate somewhere much sunnier than Scotland. With the departure to Sydney set for the weekend after race day, perhaps the prospect of deep bogs and driving rain was a worse prospect than packing everything for a family of four.

Much more importantly, we were now a couple of wiry calves short of anything you could call a fell running team.

Next up was a childhood companion from the fair isle of Jura. Now, we had the opposite problem: working as a gamekeeper he spent most of his waking hours neck deep in everything you can find on a Scottish mountain (including the occasional pile of dead deer). Road running was understandably not much of a priority, but we convinced ourselves that the combination of sheer bloody mindedness and years of mountain craft would get us through whatever obstacles presented themselves.

Devastatingly one Sunday night saw his wife involved in a (thankfully not fatal) head-on car crash. Several weeks of worry and soul searching later, his wife was back home and he was attempting to stop three small children from doing any more damage to their very tender mother. Needless to say we didn’t hold him to his race obligations, looking after close family being one of the few acceptable excuses!

Roll on number three, third time lucky and all that.

I started harassing all my fellow ultra-runner friends in earnest at this stage, and after a couple of false starts was put in touch with an incredibly fit and experienced chap from somewhere near Wales. Checking out his stats cranked up the team outlook, but did nothing for my fell running status anxiety. Completing a 50 mile mountain race in one day is a decent achievement, but doing that every day for five days, without GPS, to traverse the Dragons Back (length of Wales) is an otherworldly feat.

Lots of enthusiastic emails and texts ensued, along with a couple of phone calls. This was proper blind dating now, and everyone was getting very excited as the big day drew near.

Too good to be true? Of course!

Even the best are susceptible to a badly placed foot on a slippery slope, and before anyone could say “stay in bed and don’t go near anything that might cause injury”, the damage was done and with a heavy heart he took the doctors advice and stepped down. In hindsight a very wise decision, a “bit of a sore ankle” turned out to be much worse than it sounded and it would be months before any kind of running was to take place.

With mere days before the race it was action stations all round. A blanket appeal was thrown out to every social media site and forum we could think of, including the mass spamming of the entire fixed income trading floor at a large investment bank (I figured there’s bound to be at least one testosterone filled triathlete up to the challenge).

The race directors pitched in too, canvassing all the running clubs they could think of, and posting our desperate plea on their website.

At one point the saturation was so complete that my sports masseur in South London said one of his other clients had seen my “lonely runner seeking runner for ups, downs and shared energy gels” advert, and was considering applying.

With one day left before I was due to head northwards we had four serious contenders, and I’d taken on the joint role of Cilla Black as well as the earnest seeker of companionship.

Many phone calls later the worthy Angus from Edinburgh packed his bags, threw in his Carnethy club vest and leapt on board the train to Glasgow.

A mountain marathon veteran and owner of a race saving altimeter now firmly in the team, we really were in business, and it was two excited fellows who boarded the tiny train to Oban. Laden with running gear, whisky, Guinness and a pile of cold pizzas we looked less out of place than the smattering of commuters, as we started the three hour journey north.

Pre race fuelling

We spent the journey getting to know one another, and plotting probable best routes for the Jura leg (the others being less ambiguous), and quickly met up with the rest of the team on the good yacht Sonata (not in a pub, first surprise of the weekend).

The very organised race crew meant the kit check was a breeze, and with the “it’s not your fault if I drown or fall off Ben Mor” waiver duly signed, we retired to the local for a good dose of their finest race nerve calming brew, and bowls of specialised running fuel (aka crisps).

Sonata, twitchy

Our sailors had actually spent the last few days repairing bits of the boat –

Club rivalries put aside for the weekend!

which isn’t as worrying as it sounds, old wooden boats, even ones designed by William Fife, need a lot of tender loving care). They’d also been trying out the various new bits of kit bought specially for the weekend, so a few pints seemed downright necessary.

The first running leg is a mad six mile dash up and around the hill overlooking the town, and was introduced purely as a Le Mans style means of throttling the number of boats leaving the harbour at the same time. I’d been advised by SIPR veteran Tin to keep nothing back and if I didn’t taste blood by the end I hadn’t tried nearly hard enough! So, off we hared into a bright sunny day, pushed on by the prospect of a few hours of easy sailing before Mull.

We didn’t come back anywhere near first (fell runners are fast!), but we did

This really isn’t a normal race

ok, and with a seamless transition to the dingy were powering out to meet Sonata. She was getting a few race twitches of her own, obviously well aware of the good breeze that had been building all morning.

The wind held well, and after being seventh around the point it was a lovely reach straight down the sound of Mull to Salen.

Sunshine! It didn’t last

Well chosen sails and a happy boat took us to 4th in our class (fast yachts) and all too quickly it was time to get kitted up for the first proper leg, a less than cheeky 23 miles up, over and round the highest point on the island.

Naturally enough the sunshine packed it’s bags and the mandatory waterproofs were out of our packs before we made landfall.

A quick but thorough kit check and we were handed a bag of orienteering tokens with instructions to attach them to all the orienteering kites we could find on the list of OS coordinates. We’d be out of the race if we missed one, so safely stow them we did.

The route starts and ends with 3 miles of tarmac, followed by a couple of

Yon misty hill, etc

miles of rough track. At the point that the track becomes a path most people change shoes and leave their road ones in a plastic bag (or just lying on the ground, lets face it everything is going to be sopping wet after a few hours in the misty hills). We made our first (possibly only) navigational error here and deep in happy conversation missed the turning to traverse along the valley, and followed the river instead. We didn’t lose much time but were both annoyed at such a silly error so early.

The path is very faint in a lot of places, but it’s pretty clear from the map which way to head, and an uneventful hour of steady climbing delivered us over a ridge and into thick fog, rain and wind.

There wasn’t much to do but try and keep a steady course, keep climbing and hope we didn’t veer too far the left and miss the main summit altogether. Staying slightly to the right was our best option as a brutal drop back to the starting valley would be (hopefully) hard to miss.

A brief scramble and, yes, there was no going forwards, a sheer drop into howling wind was inches from our feet. We were on a narrow ledge with visibility of ten meters at best. The big question was whether we were to the right or left of the summit.

Whilst we were pondering this, and becoming more certain of our bearing (and also very cold, this was a shocking place to be dithering), a small group of vest clad runners clearly bearing SIPR numbers came bounding out of the maelstrom heading determinedly in the opposite direction from us.

Ah ha, I thought, some friendly people to put us right. “Have you summited”? I shouted, I got neither eye contact nor reply. “Rude fucker” I muttered.

Another group of racers piled up the mountain and shot past us, just as Angus quietly said, “they’re all wrong, we’ve got the right idea, quick lets go”.

Competitive orienteering lesson #1: It’s a race man, a race! Every team for themselves!

Five short sharp very uphill minutes later and we’d clipped our tag to the top of Ben Mor and were belting down the other side hoping to pick up the right contour for the next OS reference. At this stage we we’d gained a few places since leaving our road shoes (it’s really handy being able to count the tokens and know how many are ahead of you!).

The altimeter and Angus’s excellent map skills soon sorted our the next two references and we’d moved up the field some more. I tried to text the boat so they could get a bit more shuteye, but as soon as I (eventually) got a signal, my battery died. Trying to capture the run using my iPhone strava app was clearly a bad use of limited resources. A different context for #stravawanker. No doubt our gallant sailors were probably up and getting ready to go, our original estimate being very optimistic and without any allowance for disgusting weather and energy sapping peaty bogs.

Still, our mood was definitely buoyant, we’d got through the worst of the course, and had just entered the original valley. Just an easy traverse and a few miles of road before we could check this one off the list.

Until.

Disaster struck.

I heard a loud crack and span round to see Angus on his back looking more surprised than in pain. He was in pain though, a lot of it. A foot, no doubt imbued with the imminent prospect of a hot shower and a glass of whiskey, overshot it’s rightful placing, slid the wrong way and dumped the full weight of it’s owner the wrong way.

Angus did well not to pass out on the spot, and after a couple of false starts we made our careful way down the valley. We were both outwardly hopeful that this was a minor sprain and no real damage had been done.

This was the end of the race though.

We made our slow, cold, wet and hobby way back down a drizzly valley and Angus even ran some of the road section back to the boat. Total time on the Mull course was over 5 hours, slightly more than we’d hoped for, but the weather had hardly been in our favour.

We kept an optimistic angle on the ankle situation, deciding to see how it looked when we got to Jura.

Not what ankles are supposed to look like

Our sailors greeted us with probably the best welcome we could have hoped for. A hot shower, bowls and bowls of steaming beef stew and a couple of cans of Guinness. Not what we were expecting on board a racing yacht but oh so, so perfect.

Bundled up in dry clothes and sleeping bags, lulled by the gentle rocking of the boat, deep sleep was only minutes away.

I woke up hours later and was still being gently rocked, my now slightly more alert self registered the lack of wind, but dismissed it as an excuse for more sleep and conked out again.

The next time I woke up it was to the hum of the engine, which did not bode well: engines in a sailing race (outside of emergencies) being somewhat frowned upon.

The crew had realised that our slow progress in the water meant we had no real chance of completing the course, even if Angus was able to run (which with an ankle as big as a melon he really wasn’t), and had taken the executive decision to motor to Jura and give us a chance of sailing as much of the rest of the course as we could. No point drifting in circles for twelve hours waiting for the tide, might as well salvage some of a sailing weekend for the Jura to Largs leg.

Sailing through the corryvreckan whirlpool, an unexpected fright!

This serves to highlight that this isn’t a race that you can get round just on meticulous planning, there are so many variables, and you’re at the mercy of the weather in more ways than one. This is also what makes it so compelling, if it was easy, what would be the point?

I got on the phone to the Jura runner who couldn’t make the race, and we arranged to meet in the village and head up the paps anyway, it was too good an opportunity to miss. Donning wet waterproofs wasn’t much fun but the hard climb straight up Beinn An Oir took my mind off any minor discomfort.

The outing turned out to be an unexpected treat and I spent a very happy couple of hours being shown all the special local routes off the peaks (whether I’ll be able to remember them this year is another matter).

After an evening in the Jura pub catching up with family and friends, a few hours of sleep, and we were heading off into wind and wet towards Largs, a sailing team of 5 now, no more running expected.

Angus passed the test of being left at the helm for hours in the rain without complaining (or stopping smiling)

It was a fairly gruelling few hours until we got round the Mull of Kintyre, then a nice and easy sail in past Arran.

It’s hard to sum up the weekend in a few sentences, but this really is an epic race that really gets under your skin. It’s hard enough to be seriously challenging, but not impossible. Teamwork is vital, even down to making sure everyone gets a chance for the odd bit of sleep.

Our shore crew were amazing, having supplies and ready to go stews, soups and sandwiches meant we could focus on the important bits, like eating!

The wooden heads will be back this year, let’s hope it’s windy (but not too windy) and a bit less slippery…

GUCR 2014

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I am done, finished.
I’ve have had enough with this race, and am just too tired to carry on. My feet hurt, I can’t keep my eyes open and I’m starting to get cold.

Such were the thoughts flashing through my mind at 3am on Sunday morning. I’d been running for 18 hours and had covered about 95 miles of the muddy and wet grand union canal towpath from Birmingham. Paddington basin, and the finish, were another 50 miles ahead.

∞

Calm the night before

It had started fast, way too fast.

With a belly full of instant porridge, bananas and coffee, I had joined the other 109 runners in the weak 6am sunshine as we charged off from Gas Street at a brisk 9 minute mile pace. It was so easy to get caught up in the crowd, swapping race stories and tales of how we came to be here.

The first 26 miles came at me hard. Stiff legs and a painful knee nagging reminders that I hadn’t recovered from the SIPR (albeit only half of it) the previous weekend.

Ready to rock

It felt faster than it looks!

If the first marathon of 6 feels like this, what chance do I have of getting to the end? The thought of bailing out and saving my body from unnecessary punishment became a serious proposition. It would have been a shame but there was no point in doing myself actual damage.

∞

It’s hard to remember what changed my mind.

Perhaps it was doggedly sticking to my fuelling plan of a sandwich (peanut butter, nuttela and banana) or wrap (hummus, chicken, green pepper and cheese) between every checkpoint, supplemented by 2 or 3 cereal bars and an ellas kitchen pouch (baby food yes, but you can always get it down).

Perhaps the pouring rain turning the wet path into a lethal slippery streak of mud, one that threatened to kick me into the canal every time my concentration wandered, generated enough of a distraction from negative thoughts.

Perhaps it was because I slowed down a bit, let those running at a record breaking pace go on ahead, and settled into a comfortable rhythm. You could say I started running my own race.

Or maybe it was a pile of ducklings.

Nap time for some

∞

Whatever it was, the next 24 miles were a joy. My legs felt great, knee number two had given up trying to derail the adventure and the odd spell of sunshine lit up the bright yellow rapeseed fields and calm canal waters.

Trundling happily into the 50 mile checkpoint after 9 hours, to be greeted by part of the SIPR team (who also happen to be my uncle and aunt) made me even happier. Fully loaded on smoothies, bananas, shortcake, smiles, hugs and bemused encouragement, I was hefted back out onto the route, and bounced my way along to the 70 mile point.

∞

It would be dark before the next checkpoint, so a great deal of faffing was in order. Change of top, shoes, socks. Tights on, headtorch in bag. Hot quiche and beans devoured.

I was sitting opposite a very fit looking fellow who had looked fairly settled before I arrived. We got chatting and happened to leave at the same time. The conversation continued and it became clear that our paces were exactly matched. We gently jogged into the darkness, talking of this and that, but not the enormity of the 75 miles still to go, we hadn’t quite hit half way.

A glimmer of not rain

At the 85 mile checkpoint, which was supposed to be drinks and snacks only, we were treated to hot soup, what a bonus! A couple of other runners looked in a pretty bad way, anguished heads held by swollen hands, shivering bodies swaddled in warm blankets. At least 20 people had dropped out already.

A definite team now, David Allen and I made our way onwards, breaking the run down into 5 mile stages. At an hour a pop this was about the biggest challenge we could face at any one time.

∞

Lightheaded, confused and weak, bad news.

Skipping the last mid checkpoint sarnie was hardly a good idea, but it’s so easy to fall into the not eating trap. Your stomach isn’t fully functional (blood being sensibly diverted to more obviously useful muscles), saliva is a distant memory and anyway, you’re rocking along having a great time.

I’d broken my own rule, and it was made specifically for this situation. Luckily I was keeping a close mental eye on how I felt, and within minutes of necking a rocket fuel sandwich was back taking my turn to lead our little train ever closer to London.

∞

Coming closer to the 100 mile checkpoint was when I slipped into the next low point. An hour before dawn is the hardest part of any overnight race, especially if you’ve been hammering away at it for nearly 24 hours already.

The spine challenger, and the dark dark moments in what felt like perpetual darkness was fresh and raw enough for me to spot this instantly. Recognising that my body and mind were fine, and that this was a mere distraction caused by circadian rhythms, I dismissed the “call it a night and go to bed” voice and carried merrily on.

“Merrily” may be overstating it somewhat, but covering 100 miles in about 21 hours gave us a good confidence boost.

This was the longest stop. It was going to be 20 miles to the next one (the longest gap in the whole race), we were cold, and it was going to get light soon. It made sense to eat as much of the fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, sausages and beans as was acceptable, and start the last 45 miles feeling as refreshed as possible.

Sunny Sunday

I was hoping to see some friends and family in Tring and Berkhamsted on the way through, but had anticipated slowing down a lot more than I had. We shuffle/walk/ran through Tring at 5am, and somehow I didn’t think anyone would appreciate a phone call from a sweaty, muddy and sleep deprived canal creature. Even if he was accompanied by a Jean Paul Gaultier lookalike (I can’t remember who said it, but there is a definite likeness to David).

The scenery was lovely as we got closer to then passed the M25 (which felt like a very significant landmark), and did help a tiny bit to distract our minds from the now near constant pain in our feet.

I only picked up one tiny blister (hilly twin skin socks, you rock), though they had always been a big pain problem for me. This time it was just the soles of my feet that hurt. They really really really hurt.

∞

I remember clearly when I thought I’d first become an “ultrarunner”. It was in the days and weeks after an overnight 50 mile race in the Peak District. The feeling was intoxicating, not dissimilar to landing a new, higher paid job or aceing exams at school. I basked in the satisfying knowledge that I’d joined the ranks of superhumans I’d been obsessively reading about for months.

Was this what it felt like to become a non-ultrarunner?

I texted my wife:

If I ever say I want to do this again, tell me I’m not allowed!
Xx

I wondered about the futility of the pursuit.

Grinding it out

I didn’t question why I was here, that was easy. I’d got caught in the GUCR race report trap and became fixated on what many described as the hardest thing they’d ever done. Tales of 5 minute power naps, face down on the towpath, pushing through mental pain barriers and the huge drop out rate latched onto something deep in my head. Take that, add a few beers, throw in the internet and suddenly you have your name in the hat.

I honestly felt sick when my name was drawn out of that hat. Shit, I have to do it now.

∞

The miles stood no chance against our metronomic pace, suddenly 125 had passed (I’d misread the map and expected it a mile further ahead, a delicious mistake).

Ditching our wet overnight kit felt liberating, clean socks and a fresh t-shirt rejuvenating. Stuffing our faces with snacks and tea, a quick hello to Paul Ali and Stouty and we were rolling through the sunshine to the penultimate checkpoint, just 13 miles away.

Evenly spaced bridges became our friends, walk to one, run to the next, walk, run, walk, run. They passed by quietly, the towpath got busier as Sunday joggers and cyclists passed with quizzical faces.

∞

A famous badger said that anyone can run an ultra. In fact lots of people say this, and now I’m saying it. The crucial bit is wanting to.

Assuming you don’t succumb to something serious that involves you being physically taken off the course and put somewhere where it’s hard to rejoin, like a hospital, then it just comes down to how much you want to finish.
It really is nothing more than having the sheer bloody minded determination to carry on despite every part of your body and mind telling you to stop.

I’m not sure that’s really a skill.

Perhaps then there is something else to be gleaned from these runs, something other than the satisfaction of finishing and knowing you didn’t give in to the “weak” voices urging you to quit.

This wasn’t the hardest thing I’ve ever done, that was the first few months of being a new father. Not to say this wasn’t a major challenge, it really was!

I suspect that there is a certain amount of conditioning that happens to your body over repeated long runs, and that this reduces the number of body parts screaming for a top spot on the pain register.

Still, pain seems to be an integral part of running a long way, even if you can reduce and contain it, something will hurt. This much is clear from the amateur race reports scattered across the internet and from books by elites such as Scott Jurek and Killian Jornet.

∞

I could’ve kissed it

I didn’t know signposts could be beautiful, until I saw the 13.5 miles to Paddington one. A cheeky half marathon left and a handy checkpoint for a quick spot of refuelling.

I was happy enough to be this near to the finish, but a hug from Nici Griffin was a lovely gesture and lifted the spirits beautifully. James wasn’t dispensing hugs but cheerfully dumped a large bag of sweets and crisps onto the table, just the ticket.

Apparently there were two people just ahead of us, and Nici reckoned we were moving faster, so less dilly dallying and more racing please. Wolfing down a packet of crisps and half a can of coke each we left the station in record time, the competitive spirit was still running high. I suspected this was a ruse to keep is moving, but at this stage everything helps. Relentless Forward Motion was the team motto after all.

Guess what happens if you eat a load of sugar, salt and caffeine really quickly after running 133 miles? I don’t really know, but feeling more than a trifle peculiar I ground to a halt as I wondered what to do about this new situation.

Water laced with fresh lime juice luckily roused me from my stupor. Run a bit, walk a bit, run a bit, walk a bit, drink a bit, eat a bit, run a bit, walk a bit…

This way we soon caught up with Heike Bergman, suffering from shin splints. The 3rd lady at last years Spartathalon looked dismayed as we trotted past, we felt bad but of course carried on, there were 6 miles to go and this was still a race.

∞

One reads about finding enlightenment through transcending pain and suffering. Robin Harvie touches on it, and I hear of people finding an inner peace once they’ve shut the pain into an ignorable mental compartment. Maybe. I do feel more aware of my body, and it’s limits, and there is definitely a sense of shared experience after races like this. You catch an eye and know that behind the brave smile, hurt was endured.

The ultrarunning community is a great one to be part of, people tend to be selfless, open and short of the same few screws as you. This race embodies so much of what I love about running. The low profile, feeling like part of a big family that encompasses the organisers, volunteers and other runners. It’s cheap too, like the best fell races. No fanfare, no fuss, and if you’re polite someone might make you a pot noodle.

∞

Less than a mile to go and we started bearing down on the other runner Nici had hinted might be catchable. He was walking, but glanced over his shoulder, then he and his buddy started frantically tightening straps and making ready to run. We cruised by at a stonking 4 miles an hour, big smirks plastered across our faces.

No, No, No, No! I’ve just had the shittest two miles of my life, there is NO WAY you can overtake me now!

A couple of minutes later they came muttering and cursing by, shuffling ever so slightly faster than us.

We chuckled all the way to the finish. It was mean but funny. I’ve been overtaken with 100 yards to go and it’s horrible, I wasn’t about to inflict that on anyone else, but amusement is hard to come by after 144 miles.

Massive team effort, to the last

Crossing the line was a lovely feeling, not nearly as big a sense of relief as I expected, but being able to sit down and not get straight back up again was heavenly.

I went from hot, sweaty and sunburnt to cold and shivering within a few minutes, a result of not eating or drinking that much during the final push. The wonderful volunteers sorted me out with a blanket and microwaved pasta pot, and I was able to watch someone fall into, and be rescued from, the canal from a comfortable position. Dick was very happy, he’d been waiting 20 years to see that. I’m just glad it wasn’t me, the canal was looking distinctly mucky.

Tired and happy

∞

I was sent on my way with more hugs and kisses (Dick did offer but we settled for a photo), this really was a nice race! Getting the tube was a bit tricky but home, my girls, food, a shower, wine and bed weren’t too far away. I managed to stay up until 8pm, quite an achievement!

Me and the Main Man

As the memory of the final 11 hours of pain recedes, “never again” is slowly morphing into “I can do it faster”. Not next year though, unfinished business at SIPR and the Jura fell race are the big priorities for May 2015.

I will be back one day, it’s just too good a race to only do once.

∞

(Yes, I really did carry an extra 300g just so I could post this on strava)

Chuffed

A few notes for prospective canal runners:

The supplied maps are excellent. Totally water and bend proof, very clear directions on all tricky bits, mile markers, checkpoint details (drinks & snacks / hot food / bag availability). Just don’t stash them near anything that might leak ink when wet, mine went a bit blue from another bit of paper.
Bags are available very regularly, roughly every 15 miles, so you don’t need a large pack as you can replenish stocks often. I used an inov-8 race ultra vest (which I love), but even that was bigger than I needed.
I opted for two pairs of road shoes and changed half way. In retrospect the amount of rain before and during meant trail shoes would have been a lot better for the first half. The last 45 miles are almost entirely on hard packed path, so nicely cushioned road shoes are a must, unless you’re a compete masochist.
Make sure you pack enough warm kit for the night section, it gets pretty cold even in May, as even the slightest breeze over the canal cools the air a surprising amount.
Consider carrying a super lightweight wind proof jacket or smock. I had an inov-8 windshell and had it on and off about 5 times during the day on Saturday, it was just enough to keep me mostly dry and by keeping the wind off stopped me from getting cold. It was thin enough to dry out just hanging off the back of my pack. Incidentally this is my current favourite bit of kit, I use it often, yet it’s light enough to always take, just in case.
Avoid staying in the travelodge if you can, it really is as noisy as Dick warns, apparently the Jury’s inn and premier inn are both much quieter. Listening to stag and hen parties lurching down broad street does not make for a restful night.

∞

Thanks to Ross Langton for photos of me “running”.

Not running

nohtaraM ehT. Or, the anti-race

Long run

Off we go!
Bong, bong, bong, bong, and we’re off! It’s just gone 4am and the official unofficial London marathon is underway.

I’m in a group of about 30 people,
tapping out a nice 8m/m pace, and tracing the marathon route in reverse. The plan is to finish in Greenwich just in time to catch the crowds and wish them luck as they embark on the actual race.

With the SIPR and GUCR looming, this seemed like the perfect opportunity to get a long run in, without losing most of a day and hopefully having some nice chats along the way.

Sleeping’s cheating

Pre “race” day prepetrations went about as expected; slightly too much beer, not nearly enough sleep (a three year olds night terror episodes do not make for a restful evening) and a low carb meal. So leaving the house at 3am feeling rested on springy legs was an unexpected, and very pleasant, feeling.

The 5 miles to Big Ben took in a fairly standard early Sunday morning array of discarded chicken bones, drunken girls in exceedingly short skirts (am I turning into my dad already?), mini cab touts, night buses and the odd shift worker. Some abuse was expected but nobody even seemed to notice me, presumably I was just some nutter in bright green shoes and a running vest – I would’ve avoided eye contact too.

A little part of me still thought this was some elaborate practical joke (though quite who would bother hadn’t occurred to me) so there was a feeling of relief when I rounded the corner at Westmister to see a crowd of chatty runners stretching and looking sprightly.

Richard Cranswick, the man behind the excellent Social Ultra site, was even there with his promised mobile aid station, which was to be a very welcome treat at Tower Bridge at the half way point.

History

I first heard about this event on a train back to London from Sheffield a couple of years ago. I’d just finished my first ultra (the very well organised and highly recommended Dusk till Dawn by Richard and Wendy Weremiuk), and had got chatting to Robin Harvie who I’d ran with for 10 miles or so the evening before.

There was something instantly appealing about the idea of running one of the worlds biggest marathons, before everyone else starts and reversing the route. Slightly silly, a little bit subversive and a great opportunity to participate in the capitals annual day of race fever.

Sadly Robin couldn’t make it this year due to injury (James Adams took the organising lead) but I think he’d be very happy with the number of people who took part. In 2012 there were just 14, somehow I suspect next year will be even busier.

Too fast!
The first 10 or so miles went by quickly and my legs felt pretty good. As we rounded the bottom of the isle of dogs we saw four or five runners ahead, complete with rucksacks and determined expressions. “Weirdos” I thought, “what’re they doing out running at this time of the day”, it took me a minute to realise that I was also a weirdo, and that we’d caught up with the “4:30 target” group that started out half an hour before us.

Sore legs

Sore Legs? No! This couldn’t be! We weren’t even half way and my legs were sore.

Not good.

I eased off a bit and fell in with another group, it wasn’t long before someone commented on how well those on track for a 3:15 finish were moving. That at least explained the legs, and sure enough when I checked my split times later I was knocking out 7:20s, so easy to get carried away!

Cakes

Somehow Richard had almost hidden himself and his cakes behind the corner of Tower Bridge, and quite a few sailed right by. Luckily I spotted the bottles of coke, cheese and pineapple on sticks, Mr Kiplings finest and mini sausages. Proper ultra style feed stop, what a star!

Hanging onto the blue racing line we zipped through the rest of the route nicely, and before long were able to run down the middle of the road and watch the race preparations get fully underway.

Of the people we saw most were surprised but encouraging, we were even given water towards the end. Comments tended towards the “you’re going the wrong way!” end of the spectrum, but one bus driver did give us the internationally recognised hand gesture for “fuck off you bunch of show off tossers”. I gave him a big smile and wave, it seemed the most appropriate response.
One lady shouted “good luck lads” very enthusiastically, I suspect she was drunk or half asleep.

Champions!

Not surprisingly we weren’t allowed to cross the start line, but did mill around a bit chatting to official looking people and helped to lighten Richards bags of cakes. Rather than being annoyed with us, there was a lot of genuine enthusiasm and support. One amusing conversation went a bit like:
“Don’t you get tired when you run a marathon?” Yes, but most of us do ultras too.
“What’s an ultra?”
“What???”
“Is it even possible to run X miles in one go”
“What did he say? What’s JOGL?” Pointing at Richard.
“WHAT???”
Lovely to see the sarf landan bored and dismissive attitude dissolve into curiosity, moving through incredulous and settling on bemused admiration.

Last leg
The plan was to go for a fry up somewhere near the cutty sark, but with family staying for the weekend I topped up my water bottles from the mobile reservoir and trundled the 5 miles home at an easy pace.
36.4 miles and home just in time for a big breakfast at 9, what a wonderful start to the day.

I can’t recommend it enough and assuming I don’t get a place in the official official one, will definitely be back next year.

Oh, my time for the 26.2 was 3:51, not a personal best but not too shabby.

Links:
Social Ultra – nohtaraM ehT

Strava log

The Spine Challenger ultramarathon – Race Report

race

“I’ve got pneumonia”, announced Martin.

“Christ” I thought, doubled over coughing and wheezing, “so have I”.

Cold, icy and slippery

6:30am on Sunday morning, 67 miles into a 106 mile race, somewhere in Yorkshire: We were both so tired that the muddy verge next to the canal looked like a great place for a quick lie down. Cold and confusion hadn’t fully taken hold though (the briefing on hypothermia was firmly stuck in my head), but there was little enthusiasm for getting cold muddy bodies into sleeping bags.

Quietly we were both wondering what the hell we were doing here, why we’d signed up for such a daft race, (it would have been hard in the summer, but winter! Completely, utterly, ridiculous), and throwing in the towel meant sleep and warmth, the only important things in life right now.

This was the lowest point of the race.

The Spine Race

I got more than one “bloody hell you’re not going camping are you?” comment

The full race takes on the entire 268 miles of the Pennine Way. Starting in Edale village in the Peak District, it winds its way over moor, mountain and dale, before finishing in Kirk Yetholm, just over the Scottish border.

Described as “Britians most brutal race”, competitors have 7 days to complete the course, with checkpoints (most including bunks) few and far between (every 50 miles or so).

I didn’t do that.

The baby version goes from Edale to Hawes in Yorshshire, and covers a paltry 106 miles of the trail. This seemed a more manageable distance, and anyway, for my first 100 mile race was more than tough enough.

Build Up

“Ready” to go

The weeks leading up to the race followed the usual pattern, or a pattern I now recognise. Worry about illness and injury (real and imagined), anxiety (about the mandatory kit list), eating a lot (awesome), and a complete lack of anything resembling actually looking at the course or really working out how much food I’d need.

Once I finally bought everything on the list, I felt much happier and relaxed. Then it was just a case of getting me and my overloaded bags up north.

Spotting a similarly heavily laden fellow on the funny little trans Pennine express, we struck up a pseudo English/French conversation which helped to take my mind off the enormous task ahead.

I hadn’t even checked where I was staying (my companion didn’t actually have anywhere booked, so I was one up on him at least), assuming Edale would be ablaze with Montane Spine signs and banners. A tiresome dark, damp trudge up and down the village was reluctantly undertaken before we found both the peak center and the village hall (obviously right by the station). Apparently they don’t turn on the light by their sign because nearly everyone arrives in big groups and knows where they’re going. Clearly they cater to more organised types. Not the best start to the weekend.

The briefing was brief but very informative, the organisers obviously knew what they were doing, and the focus was very much on keeping us alive, which was quite a sobering thought when I’d spent quite a lot of time talking down the dangers to my wife.

Back to the hostel and met up with Martin Wilcock and Sam Robson, who I’d arranged to share a room with and hopefully tag along with on the race. They were already in bed and weren’t budging, despite repeated mentions of pints of lager (obviously more experienced at this sort of thing than me!).

Sadly I found that there was a kitchen but no food, and I’d missed the food at the pub too. First dip into my cold sausage and potato stash then. Decent bit of faffing moving stuff between my pack and my drop bag, and back again. Managed to find a couple of people carrying as much as me, which made me feel slightly less of a clueless nubie.

Off to the pub then, to be honest I couldn’t help it, it’s become a sort of tradition, plus I thought it might help me sleep. When you’re sharing a very small room with three other blokes, earplugs aren’t going to cut it alone. The 6am alarm came round far far too quickly.

Race Morning

More cold sausages and potatoes – of course I hadn’t thought about breakfast – far superior to the gels I saw some sucking down, too early for that. Martin kindly gave me one of his marmalade sandwiches, Paddington Bear style, which went down very well.

Back down to the village hall for a quick and successful kit check and to get my GPS tracker attached (provided by opentracking, really handy for friends and family), picked up a state of the art cotton spine t-shirt and commenced hanging around in the drizzle waiting for the start.

Warwick was looking sadly at his GPS and said that he’d somehow managed to delete all the race waypoints, and would have to rely on the OS map and just follow the marked Pennine way trail.

“How to make a hard thing harder eh”, I wryly noted to myself. Then found that whilst I had all the waypoints, I’d managed to join them together into a 3,000 mile road route, so it was next to useless. What a complete Tool. Martin and I had planned to run together anyway, but at this point I was almost prepared to physically attach myself to him just in case he was feeling particularly fast.

The race started slightly late, in a very muddy field to very little fanfare. Those of us who set off at a run were grumpily berated. I was so glad to be moving I couldn’t help but run, and also needed to warm up as the promised sunshine had been replaced by driving sleet and hail.

Martin, Sam and I jogged along chattily, remarking on the sad lack of scenery but keeping a good pace.

The sleet gained intensity and waterproofs were needed within half an hour, we lost Sam around this point and assumed he’d rocketed on ahead (we later found out he was helping an injured runner off the mountain). As we climbed we were quickly covered in snow and greeted by amazing views of a snowy Peak District. Not the anticipated weather, but a real treat nonetheless.

Hammering along windy streams in snowy gullies was great fun and the snow helped traction on the underlying mud nicely.

At this point I discovered my new Sealskinz mittens were soaking wet! My hands were warm, but this was a huge disappointment so early on. Thankfully the combination of 1000 mile liners and Sealskinz knee high socks were working properly and my feet were toasty.

Eventually we dropped down from the hills to Torside reservoir, this was about 16 miles in and the sun came out. The roadside checkpoint was very basic, so basic in fact all they had was a pen and paper. This wasn’t unexpected, but still a little surprising. No mollycoddling here.

I thought I’d stop for a quick water refill from my backup supply, move some food around and text home. My super quick, highly efficient pit stop was met with “fucking epic faff mate” from Martin when I caught up with him again. I think sharing one of my peanut butter, nutella and banana sandwiches helped to distract him from my slowness, at least for a bit.

Straight up some hill, then we wound our way along a huge flagstoned path through the moor. Around here we saw number 9, who had fallen and (his words) “smashed his hip”. He wasn’t moving very well and was intending on pulling out at the next road crossing, roughly 23 miles in. Gutted for him, all that training and planning, thrown away on a single slippery stone. Given how often Martin fell over, I had real concerns about one of us doing some damage too.

The next 12 miles were fairly uneventful – a pretty straightforward run over the moors, broken up with an introduction to bacon and vegetable cake (surprisingly good) and a stunning sunset.

We stopped in a slight hollow to put extra base layers on, extract head torches and reshuffle food. I didn’t think I was suffering in any way, but kept forgetting what I was doing and dropping things on the ground. When I eventually set off again my hands were so cold I couldn’t even unclip my mittens from my pack. Figuring the best thing was just to keep moving I shoved them into my pockets and trailed Martin into the darkness.

Hooray! a cup of tea!

Dropping down to the A58 by the Blackstone Edge reservoir (mile 35) we were greeted by some very cheery ladies who made tea and tried to ply us with mince pies. I wasn’t really generating enough saliva at this point to deal with pastry, but the thought was lovely and warmed by the friendliness and tea, we headed off into the mist counting down the miles to checkpoint 1 and hot food.

A lovely crisp Sunday morning

We dropped down into somewhere called Charlestown at mile 43 and I was convinced the checkpoint must be here, so was somewhat dismayed to hear from a road marshall that it was “a tough, uphill 5K, not far really”.

Somehow we took a wrong turn near some houses, fields and maze of paths (both on phones to home, so they shouldered all the blame), but found our way again after a decent time walking in circles. Up up up we went, and found another road marshall who directed us off the Pennine way and into a village “look for the montane sign and don’t miss it”. Where was this checkpoint!

I went sailing past the sign, obviously. Backtracked and then down a steep muddy track into some woods. Where on earth were we going? Eventually we found it, there must have been road access but this was a very well hidden place, don’t know what it was for, maybe something to do with scouts.

46 miles in, not even half way!

Chastened by earlier faffage I had a dry top and dry socks on, fresh batteries in my garmin and headtorch and was eating beef goulash before Martin had even taken his shoes off. Not quite, but I won this pit stop (everything’s a race, isn’t it?)

Total turnaround time was 50 minutes, 20 minutes longer than planned but not too bad. Putting wet muddy shoes on was the worst part, but it was nice to have dry clothes and socks on.

Back up the cursed steep muddy path and before long we were back on the moor. It was now about 10pm.

Long, Icy, Cold, Dark

I honestly don’t remember much about the next 6-7 hours and 30odd miles. There was a lot of ice, it was very dark and a huge amount of effort went into staying upright (something some people managed better than others, but if you will wear slippers then you will slip).

It was getting really hard now, sleep deprivation was slowing thoughts and taking over. 22 hours on the go and all I could think about was lying down and sleeping.

The talk on hypothermia did pop into my head a few times though, and I knew it would be foolish at best to stop without getting into a sleeping bag (and bivvy bag), but that seemed like a momentous effort.

Martin had said that his mate might pop up with his van to give him a bit of support, but this seemed like such a far fetched notion to my sleep addled mind that I pretty much dismissed it.

RMan and his magic van

Saviour

Incredibly Martins phone went and within minutes we were sitting in a very snazzy VW van eating hot instant noodles and drinking tea. It was completely surreal but the best possible thing that could have happened. We allowed ourselves a 10 minute power nap (in reality 10 minutes of micro sleeps, weird dreams, twitching limbs and confusion), and trotted off into the slowly gathering sunlight.

I had no idea what 10 minutes of closed eyes combined with a bit of sunlight can do. I was almost skipping through the frozen fields I felt so chirpy – a total transformation. The frost covered ground and bright sunshine was an absolute treat, and seemed to more than make up for the soon forgotten darkness we’d left behind.

The miles trundled by and we arrived in Malham without much ado. By this point the sun was fully up and I started to get serious doubts about whether I could continue at this pace.

We climbed up the steps at Malham Cove, and drenched in sweat had to shout ahead to Martin as he started running at the top. I couldn’t run, my legs were ok but I was breathing hard and felt like something was missing.

Agreeing to walk for a bit (I told Martin that I would finish the race, but I wasn’t sure if I could keep up) Malham Tarn checkpoint 1.5 came round at mile 84, and we were treated to a cup of tea. The gruff yorkshireman manning the post said “it’s not a food stop and its not supposed to be a brew stop, but I suppose we can help you out a bit, though we are running short on teabags”. By the time we left here I was very cold and it took a while to warm up again.

Martin said that he might drop out soon as his lift home might not wait for him to finish the whole thing. I think this gave me the kick I needed, and filled in the missing bit of determination. The thought of getting myself, alone, along the next 20-odd miles, without nice waypoints to follow was just what I needed. I think this counts as giving myself a stern talking to, because by the time we got to the top of Fountains Fell (1200 foot, mile 89) I was back on it and charged down the hillside.

Weather, No Shortage Of

No shortage of mud either

We’d been warned that the weather was due to turn nasty on Sunday evening, and indeed could see rain clouds in the distance. Buffeted by strong winds as we climbed gingerly over ice and rocks up Pen-y-gent (why is there a Welsh mountain in Yorkshire?) I was very glad to be doing this in the daylight, without rain.

The longest descent followed, and then it was a happy couple of runners who hung right and took the high road to cut a couple of miles from the route by skipping Horton in Ribblesdale (an officially sanctioned shortcut I hasten to add!).

The following miles were covered on pure willpower, every slight incline was silently declared a hill and walked up, every flat or downhill was greeted with shouts of pain as sore legs, feet and shoulders creaked into a slightly faster than walking motion (calling it running is stretching things a bit). Neither of us wanted to run, and took it in turns to make the first move, as soon as one sped up, the other had to follow. Every second running now was one less second we’d have to spend in the rain later. Plus, Martin had a lift to catch – we’d promised to be in Hawes by 6.

An interminably long, cold hike up Cam Fell seemed to take forever. The wind was whipping in from the side and I was starting to get cold. Just to make it even harder, the mist was so thick I had to hold my head torch low down to see where I was going (and try and avoid falling on more ice).

The final descent was a lot harder than I thought it would be. My vision of a sheltered cruise was cruelly shattered and replaced by ankle deep icy mud, driving rain and a barely visible path (which meant eyes glued to GPS, which in turn meant wading through even deeper muddy puddles).

I was now officially cold. We deployed one up front to keep an eagle eye on the path, and one behind to keep an eye on the route (those lake district runs with Nic really helped here), and without any more mishap we eventually trundled into Hawes.

The only way to get warm!

We were greeted with a burst of clapping and a warm hall when we finally found checkpoint 2. All I could say to Scott Gilmour (one of the organisers) as he shook my hand was “that was tough, really bloody tough. Thanks though”. Not sure I really meant to thank him, but I was still smiling, so the pain was obviously receding already.

34 1/2 hours, and joint 5th place. Very pleased with that. Of the 40 that started this race, only 20 made to the finish, it really was that hard.

I’m not sure if I’d recommend this as a first 100 miler, but if you like hills, don’t mind the cold and like a challenge, then this is for you.

No goubunku, etc.

Track Log

Strava reckons I burnt 18,000 calories, that’s nearly a weeks worth: http://www.strava.com/activities/106071918/overview

Notes on Kit, etc

Get a pack that isn’t uncomfortable even when empty.
Check the bloody route is loaded properly on your Garmin.
Sealskinz socks aren’t actually waterproof (or maybe that was foot sweat, yuck), but they are warm. Wear liner socks though, as the material is quite abrasive.
Make sure your shoes are big enough to allow for swollen feet and two pairs of socks. One of my big toes is still half numb and doesn’t look very happy.

Dusk ’till Dawn ultramarathon – October 2013

race

My knee hurts.

A bizarre looking outfit

For years I’ve been able to happily (and probably smugly) reply in the negative to the stock non-runner question of “oh no, I couldn’t do that, don’t your knees hurt”.

Not today. My left one really flippin hurts. Walking downstairs is a major expedition.

I’m sure it’s completely related to spraining my ankle recently, which in turn meant that I hadn’t really done any training for this race over the past two months. I also hadn’t really thought that much about it until a couple of days before, when I started to get a decent case of “I’m about to run quite far, up hills, in the dark, and rain” nerves.

The day itself started quite nicely, taking my daughter trampolining first thing followed by a large breakfast. Hopping on the train to Sheffield laden with food was also a breeze.

The next few hours were mostly fraught however, the train batteries were apparently flat (full marks for a new excuse), I missed my connection and made it to Losehill Hall just in time to get kit checked, fill my water bottle up and get to the start line.

The start line

Once we were off I felt thankfully relaxed, and enjoyed the last bit of daylight as we headed up to the first checkpoint.
From here to Cave Dale is all a bit of a mystery, and the GPS wasn’t helping (it’s a pure maze of tiny paths, more stiles than you’ve ever seen, a railway line, a main road, some fields and a river).

The rain didn’t really start till after CP3, but when it did it properly meant it, as did the wind. At this point I was keeping pace with a friendly chap and we wisely decided to put everything on, waterproofs, hat, gloves – the lot.

We later heard that someone had succumbed to hypothermia around this time, and I’m not surprised, it was really rather nasty.

A quick stop at CP4 (Earl Sterndale) for a cup of tea and rice pudding, then straight up a hill (through someone’s rockery) and onwards.

My plan for this race was to not obsess about splits or projected finish time, spend very little time at checkpoints, run briskly,
avoid coke (to see if that helped sleeping afterwards), and to enjoy myself.

I barely looked at my watch, and only registered the milage when passing a CP and noticing the mile marker on the map.

Arriving at the cat and fiddle tested the resolve, last year it snowed here, and I started to freeze over as I filled my water at the outside station. This year however everything was indoors, we burst into a toasty room, were plied with all manner of treats and I spotted a few pints lined up on the bar. Sadly we moved on after a snatched tea and flapjack. No sitting down.

From here on the weather improved (apart from the mandatory fog over shining tor) and it was a steady run all the way down to Taxal where the encouraging and always smiling Wendy was handing out jelly babies and taking numbers.

A few soggy fields and some steep (but paved) hills took us to the final manned checkpoint at Cracken Edge, and burgers. This was the only hot food CP and had been the matter of some debate for several hours. The idea was great, but I just didn’t have nearly enough saliva. Everyone else seemed very happy with the setup, but I made do with a flapjack and water.

A mere half marathon to go, and by far the most technical part of the course; lots of hills, tracks, mud, rocks (and a river). I’d remembered this from last year, which helped hugely. I’d kept plenty in reserve so was very happy trundling along and trying to stay upright.

On a particularly slippery descent we came round a corner to find someone on their back looking very unhappy. He sat up and said he’d fallen and hit his head. We stayed with him until he was ok to carry on, though did suggest several times that he go back up the course to the manned CP.

The grim sweeper

Made it back to base in a whisker over 12 hours and in joint 16th (of 95 starters). Bit slower than last year but I put that down to the mud and general slipperiness.

Cracking night out, had lots of interesting chats, the volunteers were spot on (filling water bottles, plying food, friendly banter), and of course Richard and Wendy being on top of, and thinking of, everything made the whole thing feel very slick and well organised.

My knee still hurts, I hope no one asks about it, perhaps I’ll deny being a runner until it’s better.

Race website

Splits

CCC (Courmayer, Champex, Chamonix – 100K ultra)

race

Snap, crackle, pop

The first thing everyone asked me was “did you hear a noise when you fell over?”

I couldn’t tell whether I had or hadn’t. I’d heard lots of noise alright, swearing, the crunching of gravel, ringing in my ears, parakeets in the trees, but nothing that sounded especially like ligaments popping off a bone, or a tenon being torn.

Then again, what do those things sound like? I suppose you’d know if you heard them.

To rewind slightly, I was doing a final set of hill repeats in Dulwich woods in preparation for the CCC on the Friday. A tiny lapse of concentration on a sharp and slippery corner saw my left foot slide under me resulting in a classic hill running injury.

Lots of rest, ice, compression (and as much elevation as can be found while sitting at a desk all day, i.e none) was employed once I’d stopped feeling sick and faint.

This was closely followed by two separate physio visits, a large dose of internal fretting, lots of time spent persuading family and friends that pulling out of the race wasn’t necessary – it was just a flesh wound.

I can’t pretend I wasn’t quietly wondering whether I was doing the right thing by going anyway.

Sleeping’s cheating

I digress, this is supposed to be about the race.

The first thing that struck me after arrival in Chamonix was the sheer scale of the races taking part that week (TDS, CCC, UTMB, PTL). I think there were over 6,000 runners covering hundreds of miles in the mountains.

Kit checks, drop bags, aid stations, check points, transport, communications. The list is long and sounds like a lot of work. It might cost a lot to enter, but the organisation is absolutely first rate.

One slight niggle, but purely selfish. I was kit checked and declared fit to race before 2pm on Friday afternoon (registration finished at 7pm), but somehow was allocated a 6am coach ticket for the transfer to the start line (later registrants got later buses), a potential two whole hours in bed lost!

Luckily the cafe proprietors of Courmayer saw sufficient opportunity in the hordes of runners and opened early, so several coffees and chocolate croissants kept me quiet until it was time to get to the start line.

Run the downhills man!

Setting off in the third wave meant that I had a lot of catching up to do – sprained ankle or not – but the narrow trails made this much harder than anticipated.

Most of the route, especially for the first 50K, were fast and runnable, but because of the number of people it was very hard to overtake.

The best technique seemed to be to leap at every slight widening of the path – which really meant running on much more treacherous terrain – and putting in harder busts of energy and speed than were really ideal.

Being in an amazing beautiful setting with mountains and glaciers in every direction was amazing. It was just a shame that my inner monologue was cursing the slowcoaches ahead of me who were walking everything.

I don’t mind walking uphill, I’m no Charlie Sharpe after all, but flats and downhills? Seriously?

Wobble

The aid stations were approximately every 10K, and were reliably stocked with simple but effective mountain fare with a few modern extras.

At first I was suspicious of the piles of saucisson and cheese with bowls of noodle soup, but quickly realised that they were packed with good slow release energy.

The usual piles of bananas, flapjacks and other sweet treats were present, as well as a stack of Overstim produce, which went down better than expected (by 80K I was eating pretty much anything to be fair).

Heading up a hill towards Champex-lac for the 50K mark I remember feeling distinctly “odd”, and wasn’t entirely sure what I was lacking or had had too much of. Turns out I was hungry and dehydrated, no real surprise after a day out in the sun.

Hot pasta and bolognese sauce at the next aid station was well received, though I was glad not to be part of the chaos that surrounded all the supporters seeking their runners.

Micks sticks

As soon as we started other peoples running sticks were annoying me, and I saw a couple of people get whacked as the runner in front failed to get purchase.

Around the 70K point I was flagging a bit and my ankle started to ache. Out came my borrowed poles and the stability they gave was a real surprise (once I’d mucked around getting them to the right length – whilst running obviously).

After this I stormed up the remaining mountains, then watched in dismay as everyone came pounding past my careful self as I gingerly descended with “concentrate lats, concentrate” repeating in my head. I wasn’t sure I could face rolling my ankle again, and I certainly didn’t fancy explaining to the girls in my life that my reccy had turned into a full on race, and I now needed a stick to walk.

Sitting down

A 10 minute rest at Vallorcine with a bowl soup seemed the only sensible thing to do before tackling the final mountain, and the long descent into Chamonix. The long (long long) line of headtorches stretching up and over the really rather large looking mountain above didn’t bother me as much as I thought it would, maybe it was the thought of a beer and something cold to soak my feet in that spurred me on.

Fed up

The route down the mountain started off fairly technical, and after about 6K joined a ski run before lurching into some soft trails in the trees. Eventually my patience wore off and the mounting frustration of seeing tens of people pass me got too much and I picked up the pace and legged it to the finish line.

Didn’t quite get there in under 23 hours, but at 3 1/2 hours under the cut off, and in position 587 of 1900 wasn’t too shabby a result.

2014?

A great course, fantastic organisation and support – every village and town had locals out cheering and shouting “bravo Luke” – and nearly always someone to chat to…why wouldn’t I go back and have another go!

Strava log for the geeks.

12 Labours of Hercules ultra marathon

race

Race report on the 12 Labours of Hercules ultra marathon

A thick head and sleeping through the alarm gave the morning a more frantic start than planned.

Peanut butter, honey and banana sandwiches and a slightly experimental isotonic mixture (fresh lemon and lime juice, salt and bicarbonate of soda) were thrown in a bag and dashed over the moor to Castleton in Derbyshire.

Nerves had been increasingly bothersome, probably because 78 miles and 17,000 ft were significantly further and higher than I’d ever run, so when Richard said “go” I felt relief more than anything else.

Hill training had been fairly elusive over the past few months, south London hardly being famous for lofty peaks. Loping straight up a hill for labour 9, I caught the leader of this small group (I chose this one to start as most were doing others) about 3 miles in and had a very pleasant chat before leaving him behind near the top of the final ascent.

Everything was going very well, I felt like I had plenty in the tank and it wasn’t too hot. So it was back to base and straight back out.

After about 8 hours my big toes were complaining about the rocky descent from Mam Tor, a quick bit of toenail trimming and tightening of laces eased the pressure but the damage had been done. It’s taken 10 months to grow these nails back!

Half way through labour 6 I started feeling very weak, which worried me as there was no warning at all and there were over 40 miles still to go. A good dunk in the river at Edale, followed by 20 minutes sitting in a field emptying my bumbag of calories chased down with another half litre of water and I was off, fully charged.

I learnt my lesson and took full advantage of pizza, samosas plus my own bag of food at each visit back to base, often forced down. Hills need fuel!

Labour 11 was 5.5 mile out and back along the Limestone Way, with a burger served by a friendly group of cadets half way. I was joined by a friendly scouser doing his first ultra, who switched from walking to running as I overtook him – nothing like a bit of competition to get the legs going! It was dark by the time I got back to base, 12 hours in, which made the descent of Cave Dale more hairy than necessary.

I had a feeling labour 7 was going to be annoying so thought I’d get it done next. My hunch wasn’t wrong and I took several wrong turns and an unexpected (but correct) route through a cement factory before I powered past two others to the 600ft checkpoint.

Back at base I had another southern fried chicken wrap, loads of coke and dashed out on labour 12. This was billed as mostly road and easy to navigate, both not entirely true! There was a real kicker of a hill about quarter of the way too. I was back at base 3 1/4 hours later for my longest half marathon time ever!

Quick fuel and coke top up then out for my penultimate leg, 2.5 miles up Win Hill and back. By this point sore feet and more solitude than anticipated left me power walking most of this, lashing rain at the peak didn’t help.

The last labour was a cheeky 4 miler, on road, with a pretty descent ascent. This was a great way to finish and I got up to a satisfying clip on the way back to finish in 5th place in 22 1/4 hours.

I expected to be broken by the end, but apart from losing a couple of toenails, two small blisters and minor dehydration (despite drinking over 20 litres of water), I felt in great shape. Swimming, cycling, speed work and plenty of core and upper body sessions had kept everything working well with none of the aches and pains I’d previously considered a normal part of long distance running.

As expected Richard and Wendy were super organised, incredibly encouraging and downright nice all the way through. I tip my hat to another great race and I’ll definitely be doing more beyondmarathon events (already signed up for the October dusk till dawn!).

Next up is the CCC round Mont Blanc at the end of August.

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jura runner

race reports from an accidental ultra runner

Author: jurarunner

Tooting 24h 2014 – or – How not to run your first 24 hour track race

Make sure you actually have a place in the race

Don’t start the day with a massive hangover

Work out your target pace sensibly, based on reality

Don’t set off too fast

If you’ve lapped James Elson, you’re going too quickly

Don’t try new food on the day, as lovely as it might look and taste

Do try and remember your lap counters name

Having support really… helps

Don’t underestimate the mental aspect

In summary

Scottish Islands Peaks Race – DNF!

GUCR 2014

nohtaraM ehT. Or, the anti-race

The Spine Challenger ultramarathon – Race Report

“I’ve got pneumonia”, announced Martin.

The Spine Race

Build Up

Race Morning

Hooray! a cup of tea!

Long, Icy, Cold, Dark

RMan and his magic van

Weather, No Shortage Of

Track Log

Notes on Kit, etc

Dusk ’till Dawn ultramarathon – October 2013

CCC (Courmayer, Champex, Chamonix – 100K ultra)

12 Labours of Hercules ultra marathon