Written by Thomas Bubendorfer - http://rubbishrunner.blogspot.fr

Disclaimer: I apologise for the delay. The Internet café in Clifden was closed yesterday, and we spent all day today travelling back to Kerry. Now it’s nearly one o’clock in the morning, and I haven’t got the energy to proofread what I’ve just typed, but I figured I shouldn’t let you wait any longer. And I hope you’ve got time - this is long.

It’s 9 am, 1 April 2007. I’m standing in the middle of nowhere, together with about 100 other feckin’ eejits highly trained athletes. The longest race of my life is about to commence, and I’m ready. Before we know it, the claxon sounds, and off we go. If you’re used to shorter races then you’re in for a surprise, because apart from the 3 or 4 top runners, everyone else is starting at jogging pace. We pass Maam Cross one mile later, where the finishing line will be many hours later. I immediately settle into a rhythm that seems reasonable, easy enough to be sustainable, but fast enough to feel comfortable. The first mile markers are out of place. According to them, I ran the first mile in 9:20, the second one in 8:00 and the third one in 7:30 – I don’t think so. But, on average, they should be about right, because I fall into 8:00 pace, and I’ll be stuck in that gear for a long time to come. At the briefing the day before the race director recommended running in small groups, and I attach myself to two guys running at my pace. We spend the first 6 mile closely bunched together, until one of them takes a break on the side of the road, and all of a sudden I’m running on my own. To be honest, that suits me just fine. I want to run my own race, at the pace that feels best for me, rather than adapt my running to suit someone else’s needs. I pass the first water station, at mile 5 in 40:37, 8:08 pace, just about perfect.

I’ve been told that it’s best to mentally split such a long race into smaller junks. For this one, two obvious splits come into mind, namely three equals chunks of 13.1 miles (start/marathon start/half marathon start/finish) or the 4 parts of the road. The loop forms a misshapen rectangle, 10 miles on the southern side, 9 miles on the west, 7 miles on the north and 13 miles on the east, back to the start. However way you split it, it’s a bloody long way to run. (We drive the course the next day, and it takes us about an hour). At mile 10, I pick up my secret ingredient. We were allowed to drop up to 5 items into any of the service stations along the course. I only have two things to deposit, but it took me a long time to decide where to put them. I eventually went against my original plan to drop them at the regular intervals of 13 and 26 miles and put them at miles 10 and 22, because I thought it would be better to ingest some carbohydrates early on. Anyway, my secret weapon is rice milk, with an added scoop of slim fast powder. The taste is revolting, but it contains carbohydrates to sustain the running effort and a bit of protein to help with the digestion – at least that’s my theory. Unfortunately I’m too greedy and take too big a gulp – half of it ends up going the wrong way, and I spend the next 3 miles coughing up that tincture, drop by drop. I do learn my lesson, and just take little sips from then on, which find the way down to my stomach, and, hopefully, into my bloodstream.

At mile 11 I clearly see someone on the side of the road, relieving himself in full view of every one else. Then I look again. What the? Am I hallucinating? There’s nobody here, just a traffic sign. To be fair, it’s probably more down to me being shortsighted than my brain misfiring. Still, it’s weird.

At mile 12 I catch up with another runner. As soon as I draw level he accelerates. The last thing I want to do is getting sucked into some private race between the two of us with 27 miles still to go, and I let him go. Half a mile later, still running at the same pace, I draw level again, and this time he lets me go. I pass the marathon start, 13.1 miles into my race, at 1:43 (7:52 pace). It’s a two minutes faster than planned, but I feel good, the pace so far was relaxed and easy and I wouldn’t change a bit. I even find the time to look around me. The scenery is stunning, with the Maumturk mountains to my right and the Connemara National Park to my left, and there is not a cloud in sight. The temperature is about 15 degrees, hotter than what I’m used to, but a slight headwind ensures I’m feeling cool enough. I’m wearing a flimsy singlet, perfect for these conditions, though I’m a bit worried about getting sunburnt, several hours in the sun will do that to you. At the 14-mile mark I pass another runner, and from then on I’m on my own. I do some calculations in my head. The marathon started 90 minutes after our race, which means I crossed the marathon start line 13 minutes behind them. I’m running 8:00 pace, and if the slowest marathon runners are doing 10:00 pace, I’ll catch up with them in – oh dear, 7 miles to go. It’s not quite as lonely as that, there are a few walkers on the course, the first ones of which I overtake within less than 2 miles. I do notice that my brain is getting affected though. At the 16-mile mark I try to figure out how far I have left to go, and try as you might, I can’t work it out. 39 minus 16 makes what? 13? 19? 15? No, can’t be, cause I’m not at the halfway point yet. The way I finally figure it out is that: 16 miles, that means I’m 3 miles into the marathon, and 26 minus 3 is 23. That’s it! Well done. And it only took about 5 minutes.

I get a bit confused at the 19-mile pit stop, because it’s half a mile late (or early? I can’t remember). As with all the other stations I refuse all offers of fig roles, biscuits, bananas or whatever else they’ve got available and just take water. One minute later I start cursing myself; Thomas you idiot, you forgot to pick up your second bottle. Turning around is not really an option, and I spend the next 10 minutes trying to convince myself that it was a stupid mixture anyway, it wouldn’t really to anything for me, and it doesn’t matter a bit. I’m just about to accept that idea when I finally realise that my second drop-off bottle is still waiting for me ahead at mile 22. Doh! My cognitive abilities are dropping like a stone.

Mile 19 also sees the first real climb of the day. Up to now the course has been relatively flat, with just a small few hills on the way. I guess you could call it undulating, because flat roads don’t really exist in that part of the country. Last year I suffered badly on this hill, even though I only did the marathon, and was only 6 miles along the road. Today I feel like flying. My previous estimation of taking about 7 miles to catch up with the marathon runners isn’t too far out, it’s here that the trickle of runners turns into a steady stream. I do get a few compliments from those that realise that I’m running the ultra, and the help you get from that is great. Let’s not kid ourselves – the ego plays a big part, and to be told that you’re doing something amazing is one big boost. Mile 20 sees me in 2:40:44, 8:02 average pace, and all the miles around here are within seconds of 8:00 pace; I’m running like a clockwork. From what I remember from last year, that climb I mentioned should be followed by a drop towards Killary Harbour, Ireland’s only fjord, and another spectacular piece of scenery. What I can’t remember are the 3 miles at the top of a plain, and with the most brutal headwind I’ve encountered so far. I guess the valley in front of us works like a funnel, and we get the result of that straight into our faces. The road keeps winding along, and when the promised descent finally comes along I’m still struggling with the wind. I had expected this bit to be relaxing, especially in preparation of what is about to come, but no such luck. At least I manage to pick up my second bottle on the way at mile 22, just as planned. The sugary concoction feels rather heavy in my stomach though. I can only take tiny sips at a time, and it takes me about 7 or 8 miles to finally finish it. I do think it helps though. In addition to that I keep taking one bottle of water at each station, and alternate between taking sips of that with my own private mixture.

We finally enter Leenaun (also spelled Leenane on one sign), where the half-marathon had started 35 minutes earlier. It’s here that I pass the 26.2 miles marker, in 3:35. Even if I collapse here and then, at the very least I have managed to produce a very respectable marathon time, and all in a relaxed and easy fashion. However, if you’ve ever studied the topography of the Connemara Ultra, you know that the real fun is about to begin. It starts with the steepest climb of the day, up a hill called the Devil’s Mother for about 1.5 miles, and believe me, it’s a challenge. For the first time in hours I see an ultra runner. Unfortunately he’s passing me rather than the other way round. However, I resist the temptation of getting into a race. The next 13 miles are going to be hard enough. I had originally planned to walk up that hill in order to preserve energy for the miles ahead. However, I fear that if I walk even one single step I will be unable to start running again. So I run, step after step after step. My left calf muscle starts going into spasms. I think I’m about to cramp, but a very subtle change in my stride wards off the danger. I don’t even know what I’m doing, it’s just a tiny change in my running pattern, but it does the trick. I finally crest the hill only to feel really good all of a sudden. I run the next mile in 8:00, which is amazing, considering I’ve covered 29 miles already. Unfortunately I’m not able to sustain that, and the next mile takes 8:58 if the mile markers are accurate. They probably are, and my pace starts dropping to 9:00 pace and further. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m stuck in one gear; I can’t go faster, and I can’t go slower, the legs are disconnected from my mind and just keep turning over and over and over. To my surprise the ultra runner that passed me a few miles earlier comes into sight again. Inch by inch I’m getting closer, and by mile 32 or 33 I’m right behind him, but I don’t go past. At that point the wheels start falling off, and I’m merely fighting against myself. Other runners don’t come into the equation. The road keeps going up and down, and at each ascent I’m close to cramping, and each time I manage to somehow avert that by changing my stride with the same miniscule alteration. Just before the 35-mile marker we turn right for the last time and enter the home stretch. However, I’m not rejoicing. I’m just dreading what’s ahead.

The Hell of the West is the most notorious stretch of road amongst Irish runners. No matter if you do the half, full or ultra marathon, the last 4 miles are going to hurt. It’s almost two miles of steady climbing. It’s not as steep as the climb out of Leenaun, but it’s higher (90 meter elevation), it’s later in the course, and, worst of all, you can see every single blasted meter ahead of you, with a long line of struggling, stumbling, hurting runners, walkers and ex-runners who are now walkers in your sight. And guess what. I’m in pain. Lifting the feet hurts. Pulling them in front of the body hurts. Setting them down back on the road hurts. And it climbs and climbs and climbs. And the calves scream and scream and scream. Against all odds I make it to the half-way point of the Hell, but then it hits. I can feel it coming. It’s deep down inside my calf muscles, and with each step it’s growing. I’m just about to experience the worst cramp of my entire life when I finally relent. I’ve covered 36 miles, running each and every step along the way, but that’s where it ends. I walk. It feels strange. Stiff. I probably look ridiculous. But the cramp goes away. I don’t know how long I’m walking for. Probably a minute. Then I dare again. Run. One more step. It’s ok, the calves are holding up. I run a bit faster. Still good. I manage maybe half a mile that way, then the cramps hit again and I’m reduced to walking once more. Shorter this time, maybe half a minute. Or maybe it’s longer and my timing is off. Whatever, I run again. The worst is behind me, the climb is not as steep anymore, and I can manage.

There’s an ambulance ahead of me. Someone is on a stretcher with several medical professionals around him. Oh no, please God, not again. Last year a young man died on exactly that spot. But the ambulance crew look relaxed, they even laugh. I guess he’s not too bad then. They load him into the ambulance as I pass the scene, and a minute later it goes past me again. I’m glad to feel ok myself, but I have to admit there is a tiny bit inside me that’s jealous of the guy inside – I have to run on my own and the lucky bastard is getting a lift back home. My music player has stopped; it has played every single song that was stored. Originally I had planned to use this opportunity to switch to pure Iron Maiden at that point, to blast me home. However that would require me to take the mp3 player, turn off the shuffle mode, select the album folder, find the correct album and select it for playing. I can’t even think about doing that. Just pressing the play button to restart a song, any song, is a challenging task for my brain. I’ve dropped down several notches of the evolutionary ladder during the last few hours.

After cresting the Hell, the road drops for one mile, and then there’s just one mile of flat, winding road left. One more ultra runner goes past me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m ever so slightly annoyed about getting passed so close to the end, but I don’t really care. I’m racing myself today, not anyone else. In marked contrast to last year there are plenty of spectators on that stretch of road. And that’s good. “Come on, ultra!” “Fantastic effort, ultra!” “Nearly there, ultra!”. Apparently I’ve got a new name. But once again, the shouts help, a lot. With half a mile to go I somehow find some little bit of energy deep inside me, and speed up. It’s probably pathetically slow, but I feel like I’m flying. There’s the line ahead of me, and then I’m done. “5 hours 40 minutes and 33 second. Outstanding effort” says someone I can’t even see. I’m in a haze, someone puts a medal around my neck, and someone else puts a finisher shirt into my hands. For a few minutes I stumble around, unable to comprehend what I’ve just done.

I’ve conquered the ultra, the longest road race in Ireland.

Final note: my times for each 13.1 mile section were 1:43 (the Good), 1:52 (the Bad) and 2:05 (the Ugly). Before you condemn my pacing strategy keep in mind that each section is significantly hillier than the previous one.

Very final note: I’ve come 20th, out of 86 finishers. I don’t know how many people started, and if any of those dropped out of the race. I’m more than happy with both my time and my placement. I had only hoped to finish. Since crossing the line I've got the same question again and again from countless people. “Will you do it again?” The answer is always the same. Ask me again in a few days time.

Written by Dave Stuart - http://76thmile.blogspot.co.uk

I had read a lot about the Centurion organisation and it really is good. I was registered with minimal fuss and picked up Harvey's map which I didn't need but was compulsory and takes a lot less space than 2 OS maps. A quick race briefing from James Elson and off to the start line.

The start was fairly low key. I started at the back so I didn't go off to quickly and was into a steady pace of about 9min miles. My aim was to go sub 11 as this was the old Western States qualifying time before it became too popular which would be 13 minute miles.

The first 24 miles was fairly uneventful. I was sticking to a run 20 mins and then walk 5. I thought this worked well as I had drank and ate plenty during the 5 minutes. I also walked every incline. I made it to Box Hill in just over 4 hours which was 25 mins ahead of plan. I figured the wheels would fall of at some point but would crack on.

I had a fear of Box Hill and this was pretty tough. However the 1-2 punch with Reigate Hill slowed things down a lot. Definitely worth taking slowly and just getting one foot in front of the other. Lots of day walkers on Box Hill but they were very kind with support and moving out the way. I felt a bit guilty when an 80 year old woman moved off the path for me. A massive bees nest at the top got me up and running again.

My slow start was paying dividends as I must have overtaken a dozen runners on the way to Reigate and 31 miles. There was a good crowd at the checkpoint and the cheering was a big lift. I had a funny moment with time keeper as I thought she had got my number wrong but turns out she was telling me was 60 at this point but I was telling her, no I am 30.

I had run the next 15 miles in training and it is a lovely stretch with woods and rolling fields. I saw a runner who was in terrible shape going through Gatton Park school. He was chucking up and had left it too late to start refuelling. He recovered well and overtook me 10 miles later and beat me by 30 minutes. Goes to show that an Ultra is never over....

The Caterham aid station was a high point due to the Ice cream and Scotch eggs. I drew the line at Pork pie though. I was here in just over 7 hours with a buffer of 40 mins ahead of plan.

My favourite stretch is the next 3-4 miles which are part of the Woldingham loop which is a favourite run of mine. All was going well at this point. There are some tricky steps which I walked very slowly down and still managed to almost fall. The NDW runs alongside the M25 at this point which isn't the best but it was going to better than Botley Hill.

Botley Hill looked to be the last hill of the run and all was flat from there. To make it more difficult, I decided to kick a root and thought I had broken my toe but it turns out it was just my toenail coming off. The last aid station was at the top and just 8 miles to go from here.... I was here in 8hrs 10 so in great shape with not far to go.

I had massively underestimated the last stretch. It looks flat on the profile but has lots of short pitches and twists and turns. It is the hardest to run (except Box Hill) especially if you aren't prepared. Some of it is vehicle paths with deep ruts so the choice is to run in the mud/puddles or in the long grass. There is also a sign for Knockholt (3/4 miles) but you have 3 miles to go. I thought I almost done with a 9hrs 30 in sight but but the finish is at Knockholt POUND.

As my watch hit 9hrs 50, the Centurion Tent was in sight across a corn field. Turns out there is still a long way to go from here. I battled on as the course took me further from the finish and onto the roads of Knockholt. I had got the hump at this point and it seemed a long way to the finish. I got into the sports ground and there was still quite far to go. I had massive cramp in my hamstring but attempted a one legged sprint finish to dip just under 10 hours and 61st place.

Things I learned

Makes sure you eat and drink lots - walking breaks are good for this
Cherry tomatoes are great trail food - and Scotch eggs too
Remember which way up your Camelback bladder should go
Look at the map of the last mile of the race
Centurion aid stations and volunteers are fab
Be wary of running shorts with cycling style inners (the rubbing of 50 miles is considerable)
Inov8 trail shoes are awesome with foot damage only due to root kicking

Written by Eric Grant

After jogging at a decent clip for the first 20 miles, then alternating running and walking for the next 20, I arrive at nightfall in decent condition (considering that the first 100km or 65 miles are all soft sand). I warm up some water and enjoy a meal of freeze-dried risotto, before heading back into the night. The heat of the day—merciful compared to the Marathon des Sables but still in the low nineties (Fahrenheit)—has given way to a pleasant nighttime cool. At the same time, I will no longer be spurred on by an incredible reddish landscape of canyons, cliffs, caves and arches that remind me of the Grand Canyon.

Until now the first four or five checkpoints basically consisted of a Land Rover or two around a campfire and a ramshackle medical tent—tarpaulin stretched over four posts—for those in need. They are only a 160 or so of us at this first official edition of the Jordan Desert Cup. At midnight, however, I stumble across a much larger checkpoint offering the comfort of a closed tent for people to stretch out their sleeping bags. My body is too charged with adrenaline to stop and sleep, so I continue into the night.

Four hours later, I find myself lost. I realize this about ten miles after passing the Hedjaz railway line. I remember the railway because I stubbed my toe on the sand-covered tracks at 4am. (The Hedjaz railway is famous for having suffered attacks by Lawrence of Arabia in 1917-1918. It says so in my roadbook. Or perhaps someone told me. The start of the race was twenty hours ago and it’s now a bit of a blur.)

I stubbed my toe because I’m not wearing my headlamp. I’ve always liked the semi-darkness, the tantalizing shadows, the promise of forgetting reality far from the glaring sun. So I turned off my lamp to enjoy the full moon and the Milky Way—the first time in a decade probably that I’ve actually seen the Milky Way stretch across the heavens like a spotted freeway. You don’t see many stars in Los Angeles.

Then the full moon scampered off with the approach of dawn, the stars bid farewell, and I was too tired even to notice that I couldn’t see where I was going.

“I’m lost,” I say to myself without actually drawing any conclusions from that statement or devising any plan of action. As if somehow I will stop being lost if I simply acknowledge the fact and wait long enough for the aggravation to pass. 

I drink lukewarm water from the liter-and-a-half bottle I received at the previous checkpoint, and refuse to panic.

I’ve been awake now for almost twenty-four hours, and running, slipping and stumbling through the sand for just over twenty. I should know better than to trust my eyesight; I can hardly trust my mind. I’m in a state of… hmm, how to put it? It’s like when you’re out in the cow fields and you swallow those first few psilocybin mushrooms: not quite enough for a full-blown trip, but just right to spot all the others among the cow dung and the weeds.

Okay, perhaps that’s not the best metaphor—what I’m trying to say is that I realize ten minutes later that I am not heading toward a glow stick marking the trail or another runner’s headlamp. No, what I saw as my saving grace was a lamppost. A bloody lamppost.

Which makes me wonder: what is a lamppost doing in the middle of a desert?

After another twenty minutes I arrive at a paved road that cuts across the desert heading north and I know that I am off track.

That, in itself, is not a problem—how far off track is the essential question. How many miles will I have to add to this already inhumanely long race?

My body is strangely electric from lack of sleep and pushing myself beyond several layers of limits—this is only my second ultra and third race since I started running 18 months ago—and I now sense Panic raising its knobby head without any way to keep it at bay. Covering 100 miles on foot is one thing, but getting lost in the desert?...

I am standing on the side of a road, the presence of which, if I bother to think about it at all, makes no sense. I can’t get my mind off this: I’m supposed to be in the middle of the Wadi Rum desert, making my way to the ancient Nabatean city of Petra, and there shouldn’t be a bloody road!

Hitchhiking is not an option. Besides the fact that there are no cars at this hour, it would mean dropping out of the race—and that will not do. Certainly not. Not yet anyway. I’m not ready for that. The 100-kilometer (65-mile) marker should be coming up soon according to my road book, and so will dawn according to my watch, and I don’t want to miss either. I haven’t seen the sun rise after a sleepless night without artificial stimulation for a very long time, and I’ve certainly never run/walked 100 kilometers non-stop in my life.

My mind is a sieve. I feel like David Bowie looks in the movie The Man Who Fell to Earth.

Thankfully there is the landscape, the beauty of nature, the marvel of life, and the occasional sequence of moments suffused with euphoria when I am utterly in the present.

The advantage in my current situation of being lost is that I have no sense of pain. My legs are like blocks of molten rock, disconnected from my body—but otherwise I am strangely electrified. Just as the reality of my predicament is starting to sink in and I begin to wonder if I won’t actually have to quit the race because I’m lost, I notice three bobbing lights in the distance, perhaps a half a mile off to my right: glow sticks hanging off three participants’ backpacks!

This time I am sure. No street lamps.

I cross the road and head in their general direction. I lose sight of them, but I quickly come across a dirt track and a sign post placed by the organization and lit by a cylume stick—I am back in business.

I start jogging, pumped with endorphins and adrenalin, energized by finding my way again and with the approach of dawn. The purple haze of the sky lightens to a tabasco-stained cerulean blue. I wish I could embed the image on my memory forever.

Morning breaks fully by the time I reach the 100-kilometer marker. I take a picture of myself, haggard and wide-eyed—something to look back on, to remind myself that I was actually there... Here... Wherever this is. (And now I can no longer find the picture taken with a disposable 35mm camera).

I pass another milestone at 8am: I have now been in this race for 24 hours. Kilometer 110 (mile 69), or thereabouts. 

I come across a rudimentary tent set up by the organization. Basically canvas stretched over four poles, where runners can rest out of the sun before starting up the long stretch that leads to the next check point: nine miles and several thousand feet up a dirt road that winds its way around what looks like a mix between canyon and quarry. Nine long miles.

Blissfully, however, this marks the definitive end of the soft, loose sand that has been our lot since the beginning of the race. According to the road book, nothing but packed gravel, stone and mountain paths.

I’m all alone.

I sit down, take out my portable stove—a small metallic box the size of a cigarette pack that opens upwards to make space for a fuel table. I heat some water and enjoy a bowl of freeze-dried pasta—something approaching “real food”. I’ve varied my nutrition for the Desert Cup after my experience in Morocco: I have beef jerky, mixed nuts, even cheese in sealed packages. Dry roasted peanuts, my favorite.

I finish breakfast, pack everything away, and head up towards the Rift plateau and checkpoint 10. Or 11. I’ve lost count.

I hear shuffling steps behind me as I my make my way through the canyon, and am soon joined by a lawyer from Geneva whom I met at the recent Marathon des Sables. He is jogging at decent clip and I wonder why he was behind me, until he tells me that he slept for four hours. Evidently it did him a world of good, because I cannot keep up with him and am forced to slow my pace to a walk.

“Hard to tell,” he says when I ask him how he feels. “Both empty and fulfilled.”

As he charges off into the distance, I’m feeling rather more empty than fulfilled. My spirits are sinking rapidly and my mind starts mulling dangerous thoughts. The heat has risen progressively since dawn to a sweltering 95°F and the next aid station has been visible in the distance since I started the climb—but, like a mirage, never seeming to get any closer. The only positive factor is the relief of being on solid ground after sixty miles—a day and a night—of soft, sugary-like sand, with the feet sinking at every step.

I stop and sit down every 500 yards or so. I know this can’t be a good idea—and certainly I can’t expect to cover another 40 miles at this rate—but my legs hurt at every step. I’m beginning to think that I won’t finish. Perhaps I’ll pack it in at the next checkpoint... 75 miles is still quite an accomplishment.

I’m not sure I even want to keep going. I never considered the Marathon des Sables to be cruel despite the hardships—but the Desert Cup is definitely taking on the air of an outdoor torture chamber for masochists.

I keep telling myself, “Wait until the next aid station, wait till the next aid station”. No use making rash decisions—even if I quit, I still have to make to the next aid station… I’m beginning to refuse reality: I don’t have a choice, I can’t stop in the middle of nowhere; yet I can’t imagine facing the two, three, four hours it will take to get there… That’s entering torture territory right there.

Salvation appears in the form of a whistling Italian doctor. I quickly latch on him, struggling to maintain his pace. But I manage to do so, the mind and will once again taking over the body.

We speak of desultory subjects, the miles slip away and we finally reach the end of this interminable winding road and summit the Rift at 11am, Wednesday 8 November.

(The thought briefly crosses my mind that the United States should by now have elected a new president: Bush or Gore?)

Incredible: the panoramic view of the Jordan valley in the shimmering sun, of course; but also, and especially at this point, the mattresses laid out by the organization under a sturdily built open-flap tent.

I don’t move for two hours. I don’t want to move. I can’t sleep but I just can’t move. Exhaustion has put me in a trance, and I feel electrified and exhausted at the same time. But don’t ask me to move. The only thing I do is change my socks, rotating again with the two other pairs I have: one dry in my bag, one hanging off my bag drying. The strategy worked at the MDS and here too, even after more than 70 miles of stumbling through the desert, I have no blisters, or nothing worth worrying about. One addition from Morocco are the gaiters which I had sewn into the soles of my shoes. The same trusty shoes.

Otherwise I just sit there, for two hours, my brain void of all thoughts; if it were a heart, it would be beating at the rate of ten a minute. My body refuses to go anywhere. I realize that I am well within the cut-off time—I have over 30 hours to cover the next 30 miles—and suddenly I know, just know,that I will finish. I know I will keep going to the bitter end. I just don’t know how or what it will cost me. But I am strangely elated. Is this what it means to be zen?

I don’t want to move because the peace I felt after completing the long stage of the Marathon des Sables pales in comparison with what I am experiencing now.

Who knows how long I would have stayed if a sympathetic French mountaineer, Thierry, hadn’t urged me to join him. After two hours, I can finally consider leaving. Or, as he says: “If you don’t leave now, you will end up by dropping out.” So I get up, refreshed, and embark on the 1,000-foot climb along the Rift—and the final 27 miles before the finish line.

After 30 hours of quasi-solitude, it is nice to have company. Actually, “nice” is really not the right word. It turns out that Thierry’s presence is essential. The serenity that filled me at the check point dissipates within a few miles of renewed power walking, and I realize not only the distance still left to cover, which seemed so accessible when I was resting, but also and mainly the time it will take me to cover it. Having a fellow traveler at my side allows me to forget this for a while.

I learn that Thierry has summited the highest peaks on five continents—only Everest and Mount Vinson in Antarctica are missing from his accomplishments—and I can’t help feeling just a little proud to be so far into the race moving along at his speed.

We cover 20 miles together. The landscape has changed from the pure desert of the first sixty-five miles to the mountainous décor of the Rift. Soon we’re even passing through agricultural land dotted with houses.

Shortly before nightfall (nighttime again!) we add a layer of clothes. The temperature has plunged below 50°F, with the wind chill factor making it feel like it is near-freezing.

We reach the next check point as the sun sets, but soon realize that it is pointless to try and cook anything as the wind is blowing in gusts of up to 65mph. I’m forced to add cold water to my freeze-dried chili—obviously it doesn’t mix, and I’m left with crunchy water with chunks of flavorless goo that amazingly doesn’t upset my stomach more than it already is. Leg fatigue I can deal with; stomach problems will drain me of all energy.

Thierry and I follow a gravel path lined with large boulders, through rolling hills spotted with villages and disparate lights. My tired mind plays tricks on me—at every turn in the road, I see figures emerge from the ground like ghosts rising from a graveyard. I even imagine a cable car stretching across the valley. Thierry pokes gentle fun at me, until he mistakes our hobbling shadows for two massive scorpions. We collapse in fits of hysterics.

Though I have no thoughts of quitting, each step is becoming increasingly agonizing. My shins feel like they are on fire, and soon I have to stop every three hundred yards or so to sit down for a minute. So much for dealing with leg pain...

As intense as my suffering may be, however, it seems inconceivable not to finish. I am only eight miles away. One step at time... Never has this common cliché been so true. Thierry sticks with me throughout, shores up my flagging confidence, slows his own pace to match my own, waits every time I stop. Without Thierry, I doubt I would have finished; yet several years later, I will almost have forgotten his name.

We reach the modern city of Petra: a mile to cross it, then we will make the long descent into the ancient Nabatean city.

First we stop at the Hotel Movenpick Resort Petra. We’re not asking for anything in particular, we have no money in any case. We just want a taste of upscale comfort after nearly 40 hours in the desert. How strange, since part of my reason for competing in a race such as the Desert Cup is to distance myself from the comforts and consumerism of society…

Ah, then I realize that actually I am reveling in this sense of contentment comes from deep within me, and has nothing to do with these cushy armchairs on which I fart discreetly.

I’m not sure what effect our spectral appearance has on the hotel guests. There aren’t many—it is nearing midnight—and the hotel manager, bless him, graces us with a smile instead of kicking us out. And here I was thinking we would have to defend our reasons for stopping in his hotel.

Indeed, we have a purpose beyond enjoying a few moments in the hotel lobby away from the wind and cold: we hope to use the bathroom—the comfort of a porcelain toilet rather than squatting in the desert with sand up our asses and wiping ourselves with pages of our road book.

Having settled that matter, I let Thierry go on without me. He’s in far less pain, and with only six miles to go I’ll be fine. Still, I stop at the final check point. The wind has blown away the tent and there is only a Land Rover and a lone representative of the organization to mark the spot. I collapse in the passenger seat of the Land Rover, pop an anti-inflammatory pill, and pass out for twenty minutes.

I wake up feeling manic for some reason. After 40 hours, I am desperate to finish. I check the dashboard: it’s half past midnight.

The wind has dropped and I charge across the plateau and head down the massive 800+ steps that descend into ancient Petra—before realizing that I’ve forgotten my headlamp in the Land Rover.

No matter. The moon lights up the sky like a Hollywood film set, and I climb rather than walk down the steps, careful not to stumble at the last moment. When I reach the bottom—still hallucinating as I see glass scaffolding all along the canyon walls: the moon reflecting off the rocks—I find the way lit by candles.

I shuffle along marveling at this rose-red city built 2,000 years ago, rediscovered in 1812 by a Swiss explorer, Johann Ludwig Burckhardt. I pass the Treasury Temple, the setting for Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, feeling like the first and last person on earth, thinking that no running or travel experience will ever supersede this one: walking alone through candle-lit Petra at two o’clock in the morning.

My father congratulates me the next morning at breakfast—with the news that the US elections are still in the balance due to a recount in Florida.

Written by Dan Park - http://dan-fattofit.blogspot.co.uk

As someone who blogs regularly about races it was a first for me not to write a blog after North Downs Way 100. Why didn’t I? In part because i DNF’d, but more specifically because i had nothing new to say on the subject. I was on for the Centurion Running Grandslam, the day had been relentlessly hot, I stumbled in the dark, turned my anke and DNF’d at 76 miles. Yes there is more substance to the day than that, but in essence that was my race. The DNF was the right call for me, but could it have been avoided? Totally! So rather than write a blog to justify the DNF and how i would learn from it, I wanted to actually reflect, get strong and then comment with substance.

So after NDW i looked closely at my running right through from training to racing. The stress points for me and my family, but further what was i doing wrong? You might consider the fact that I had already finished two 100 hundred milers this year an indication that I wasn’t really doing anything wrong but i knew better than this. I have always gone into races feeling ok or like can scrape through. Stubbornness can get you a long way... A really long way, but for me it was starting to taint my joy of running and in turn my motivation. It was time to try something new and for me that was a running coach.

Firstly let me be clear that I have always been highly sceptical of running coaches. On the way to South Downs Way 100 I had that very conversation with Bryan Webster about how expensive they are and not being sure i could justify the cost. I could not really see what they could input into my running that I could not offer myself. It seemed someone else was going to tell me to run. Well yes i could do that. Granted that is a slightly simplistic summary of my initial thoughts on coaching, but it gives you the idea. After NDW I was a little dejected, but more out of frustration with myself. I had not run enough in the build up to that race. It really was that simple. When push came to shove i was not strong enough. I decided to speak to a few people who I know that have used or use coaches and those who have not and would never. I had a pretty balanced analysis of the option.

Just before North Downs Way 100 I took the decision after speaking to a good friend of mine, Nici Griffin, to have an initial call with Edwina Sutton. I had been following Nici’s running journey and despite her own complaing ;) I was impressed with the support and plans that Eddie would create for her. I was really impressed with Eddie when I spoke to her, but still slightly undecided before NDW. I spoke with her again after the race and I was convinced.

After 5 minutes into my post NDW conversation with Eddie I was sold on the benefit of coaching and that this was something I should definitely try. Eddie was fab and reassured me that really it was just consistency that was the key. She was sympathetic about my DNF, but accepted my own acknowledgement and ownership of this without trying to massage my ego (dont have Eddie as your coach if you want your Ego massaging.) I felt reassured by Eddie and unpressurised: more importantly i felt motivated. There was still part of me that queried whether the novelty of coaching would be a fad, with that said it was something I had not tried before and i figured would be worth a shot.

Fast forward 8 weeks from the conversation and i find myself on the phone to Eddie the night before Autumn 100. This time I am talking to her well and truly as my running coahc. My training up until this point has been consistent for the 8 weeks. I had noted progress in myself and my attitude towards running. Further i felt more able to mentally dial into a run. I had a good understanding of what my comfortable pace felt like and what the messages from my brain were really telling me. It had been stressed to me by Eddie throughout that consistency is key. I have trained with that attitude and even with a 2 week holiday in Florida i had managed to run and more less to a plan during that time. I can confidently say that over 8 weeks i ran the most consistently i have ever run and put some really good sessions together. I had also had some really positive strength sessions and on the whole was feeling stronger. So there i was talking to Eddie about the goals for the race and how best to achieve them. I have to say i love Eddie for this. From a family perspective she is about a year or two on from me and so has a very real understanding of the demands of family life and the balance to be found. My wife i think has also noticed the difference as well. It means my training is realistic, challenging, progressive and consistent. I am no longer sitting on the sofa saying “i should have run” and then spending hours procrastinating over how far I will run later or the following day. The added bonus of Eddie as a coach is I can’t message her and say i haven’t trained without a good reason. You can picture the scene of me texting her and trying to come up with a good excuse, knowing that she has not long had her third child and is still training. I think I would rather make sure I got my run in.

So during my conversation with Eddie I was absolutely ready for the race and excited. I had no excuses (apart from jet lag) and felt able to give this race a good crack. In Eddie’s words the plan for this race were “to finish with a big cheesey grin.” In addition i was to eat 500 calories at every aid station and constantly ask myself how i was feeling and adapt wherever required. We agreed that pace was irrelavent and i was absolutelly not to look at pace on my watch. I confess to being one of those historically that can get consumed by minutes per mile. This one would be a challenge but i was prepared to go with it. The final point was all too crucial and that was to remember we do this for fun and enjoy it. I was touched by Eddie informing me that she had been looking into trying to come and run with me for a bit. She couldn’t make the logistics work, but with a young baby i fully appreciate even the consideration. I pointed Eddie in the direction of the Racedrone app that I woudl be using and mentally added her to my list of stalkers for the race.

With a start time of 10am this race has the perfect location for me. I was able to stay at my sister and brother in laws with the family. I got a good night sleep and on the morning of the race my wife drove me over to the start. Registration was its usual smooth Centurion process. Over the years the number or runners I know has grown massively and by the time I had my race number my wife had asked me if i knew every single runner in the room. Of course i didn’t but there times when it feels like this. After dropping of my bag I bid the wife farewell and started mentally preparing for the race. I had agreed to speak to a guy from Radio Five and where a GO Pro for Audio recording. His day had obviously started worse than mine as her forgot the GO Pro’s. In truth I was a little relieved as less worrying about swearing now. I had a chat with him about why I run these types of races and it had the added bonus of getting me even more excited about the race. I really love the 100 mile races and the adrenaline in the atmosphere. I made my way to the start and caught up with friends. Some were going for the Grandslam, others were going for super fast times, whilst others were aiming for their first 100 mile finish. The thing we all had in common was an enjoyment of getting to experience this together. The weather for the race was pretty much perfect. No forecast for rain and the ambient temperature was very pleasant for running in a t-shirt.

So I lined up at the start and knew i would see everyone again at least once. The beauty of this race and something that i think makes it very special is the fact it is four out and backs. This means you get to see the front runners coming back and also encourage runners that you may be ahead of. It was nearly time for the off and I had inadvertently found myself near the start of the race. As good as my training has been I am not yet a front runner. So after a catch up with Sam Robson I stood ready to get going knowing that this would be the only time David Barker would be behind me during the race. I spoke with Sam Clack from Radio Five again and happily agreed to chat to him later. I could see he was being absorbed by the atmosphere of the race and at this moment everyone in Goring was part of the affair. James Elson gave his speach and confirmed who the Race Directors were for this weekend. James had recently confirmed he would be running. There was some speculation as to whether he would be racing for the win or to experience his event. I maintained my view that if he was running he would have to be running to the best of his ability and thus going for the win.

The countdown to the start took place 10...9....8.....................3...2...1 and just like that a flurry of runnners were departing Goring for the very first time. I was absorbed in the atmosphere. Two or three runners said hello and I confess to needing a minute to remind myself of who they were. Paul shortly after introduced himself and we chatted for a bit. Friend old and new this was going to be a very special race. I could that the day was going to be great. Plodding along i felt my leg were moving well and I was in a good rythmn. Running alongside the canal it brought back memories of Thames Path 100 and how much more prepared i felt today. There was a brief moment where I felt it was a shame that it was not for the Grandslam, but I knew i needed to run this race for me. I looked ahead of me a few miles in to see Bryan Webster. I have known Bryan for a few years now and would consider him a good friend. He is normally much faster than me, but I thought it would be fun to share 20 to 30 minutes together, whilst I was feeling good. Of course he would dart off into the distance and finish 5 to 6 hours ahead of me. I think it is fair to say what happened over the rest of the race suprised us both.

Perfect morning on the Thames Path

 Running through the first Aid station and onto the end of the first half of spur 1 the time seemed to be passing really quickly. Bryan and I were running well. We both stuck to our plans and occassionally he would disapppear and then I would catch him up. As I hit about mile 10 the lead runners came blaring past in the other direction. They all looked really comfortable, some in their own world and others giving a cursory “well done” or “keep it up.” This was all except for one, a certain James Elson. In about 8th at this point he screamed “looking great Dan, awesome effort.” He looked ridiculously comfortable, was chasing the win in his own race and yet still found that moment to briefly become engrossed in my race and not his. This is why i love Ultra Running and the Centurion Family. Soon after this I could see a mass of runnners and it suggested to me that the Aid station could not be far. Sure enough there was the Aid station and with a quick grab and run i left armed with food (remembering Eddie’s instruction of 500 calories) and a sense that i was in control. At this point Phil Hall was just ahead of me and seemed to be in a good run/walk strategy of his own. The running conditions were good, i was in a rhythm and had covered this part in a little over 2 hours. A real highlight as to why I was not looking at pace. Previously if i had been on this pace i would have slowed down and convinced myself it was too fast. In truth previously it would have been, but today it felt comfortable so i went with it. I was falling into a run for 15-20 minutes and then walk for 5. This gave me enough time to feel I had a break and also feel like I had a good chunk of running covered. The strategy was certainly eating into the distance.

Bryan had run ahead about 10 minutes before i hit the checkpoint and i assumed that he was long gone. It was to my surprise that i saw him again at about mile 14. He was approaching the road crossing and just ahead of him I saw Ashley Hurd dart across the road. I half expected the screach of tyres, the pause of Suunto’s and Garmin’s everywhere as we scraped him off the road. Thankfully it must have been my perspective as he had made it across the road fine and was running into the distance. Bryan and I started running again. After about another mile we chatted about training and plans. I noted I was just out to enjoy it and see what happened. We were both feeling good and Bryan acknowledged that i was obviously stronger than at NDW. I really felt it. Yes my legs could tell that at this point I had run 16 or so miles, but I felt like it was a sustainable pace that i could keep going for a good while yet and so I plodded on. I decided this was not a race where i was chasing times so i would take some pictures and send some tweets. It was turning into a bloody beautiful day. At about mile 20 Bryan was a little ahead of me. It seemed my run/walk strategy was working well and I was holding pace with him. This was at least 10 miles further than i would ever have imagined being in contact with Bryan. He was running with Ashley and so i plodded on. Eventually i overtook Phill Hall and gave him some encouraging abuse that i believe included a mild threat of violence if he DNF’d. As we approached a gate that would bring us back on to the bridge into Goring I was back running with Bryan. As surprised as i was he continued with a conversation we had left off about 40 minutes prior and we plodded into Goring together. It was about 4hrs 25 minutes into the race. To put this into context my previous PB for a marathon was 4hrs 35minutes. I definitely felt ok though. I had to run through a mental check to make sure i was not doing anything stupid. I text Zoe to confirm i was ok. I could tell she was a little worried that i was running too fast and that i would be blowing up later in the race. Bryan and i set off on the second leg on the ridgeway. With the woops and cheers of Natasha and Jon Fielden in my ears was feeling confident, but a little apprehensive of the hills that would be awaiting us. “Sod it” i thought. Its all part of the fun and i have nothing to lose.

Bryan had left just before me with the comment “catch me up.” There was no sarcasm in this comment, i think he genuinely expected that I would catch him up. As i left Goring Allan Rumbles and Chris Mills were in flow of conversation to which i heard “ask him go on” and “no i will ask him at the end”. I simply replied “whatever the question the answers yes.” As i ran off i heard Allan say “i should bloody hope so.” Both clearly on the wind up, but these moments of humour all add to the enjoyment of the day. So on to my first experience of the Ridgeway. It was not long before i was back running wiith Bryan. We made good time and were overtaking runners. I started to realise that a big difference between my running now and before is that i was running on some uphills. Those that know me well will know that i am not normally a fan of hills. Normally Bryan would shoot of into the sunset and this time on one occassion when i broke into a walk on a hill i heard Bryan say “thank fuck for that.” It was clear this was affective mutual support as we pulled each other along the Ridgeway at an efficient pace. Moving through the Aid stations we continued to run together, pull away from each other and soon run together again. Entering into the Aid station that would later be the 46 mile aid station i saw Graham Carter. We had a catch up and then just behind was Phil Hall. Another mild threat of violence if he DNF’d and on i carried. Not long after this James Elson came haring down the Ridgeway. Clearly he was in the lead and moving well. Armed ready with congratulations and encouragement i had no chance to furnish any of it as the shouts of “Legend, LEGEND, LEGEND!” Left James’ lips. I am sure as well that he meant it and that he lavished all other runners with the same encouragement; That or he was high on GU. Nevertheless it left me on a high and i powered along the route.


Bryan and i were running together again. We came past Richard Stewart down one of the hills. Bryan asked him how long until the aid station? The response was 5 minutes. Well i am sorry Rich but even James Elson would not have made it to that Aid Station in 5 minutes . In fact sod that he would not have made it there in 10 minutes. So it was 20 MINUTES later we arrived at the aid station. We got to the turning point... eventually ;) and made our way back to Goring as the light began to fade. Still feeling like there was running in the legs i was happy that as i moved through mile 40 the race was still enjoyable. I kept to the agreed plan i had made with Eddie and kept reassessing where i was at and ensuring i enjoyed myself. I found this section of the Ridgeway the toughest section of the race. Not because of the climb, but the twist and turns in the paths and the narrow trails. Even with that though i was feeling good and pushing forward.


By the time Bryan and i entered mile 46 it was dark and i was hungry. Bryan had been joking about getting a cheese and jam wrap. He had been, safe to say, a little perplexed at the choice of combination on the way out. So on the way back he jokingly asked for one from Graham Carter. As with all Centurion Crew Graham dutifullly obliged whilst also making me a jam wrap. I am still not clear to this day whether Bryan felt obliged to eat the Cheese and Jam wrap. I was grateful for my jam wrap. I find it a real struggle to eat bread whilst running, but wraps seemed to be going down a treat. Bryan and i ushered each other out of the aid station. Necking a couple of cups of coke on i went. I had a quick chat with Sam Clack from Radio 5 as he ran along with me through the church yard. I probably spouted a load of tripe to his questions, but he was clearly engrossed in the magic of the Centurion Race Weekend. We chatted for a few minutes in the dark. Sam thanked me and left me to get back to Goring. After some banta from Bryan about being a celebrity, he then piped up with a really pertinent question about Sam... “Did he have a torch?” my response was something along the line of “I aint going back to help him.” Thankfully i saw Sam later so i know he didnt trip on a gravestone.

Beautiful sunset

Approaching Goring i looked at my watch and realised the time still started with a 9. I turned to Bryan to converse on my surprise at the time. Training had obviously gone well, but given my 50 mile PB to date was 10hrs 45, at TP100 i had left the 50 mile point after over 13 hours, SDW 100 afer about 12 and NDW in around 13hours. So here i was approaching Goring as the elapsed time ticked just over 10hours. I phoned home to have a quick chat with the wife. The comment “what the bloody hell are you doing” was met with the reassurance that i felt fine and was not sprinting off. Given my year to date i could see why my wife had been concerned. Allan Rumbles was at Goring and why my back had turned ‘kindly’ brought me a plate of baked beans. As i sat prepping for the second trip on the Ridgeway i was very polite about the beans.... Ok no i wasn’t, but i was only rude to myself. I fucking hate beans... sorry Allan the plate of beans left behind were mine. With that said what was to come made the beans look delightful. I was ready to kill Bryan for the McDonalds that Jonny had left for him. Burger and Fries (BIG TICK), but then we entred “shit shake gate.” I am not sure if it had curdled or whether Jonny just pranked Bryan and wanted him to drink... well a cup of shit. The shake was very much not appetising and Bryan decided against the drink. So off we set back out on to the Ridgeway. I really enjoyed this section. It was hillier than any of the other spurs, but the terrain was very runnable and Bryan and i were working to an estimated time that we had said to Allan we would be back at Goring. The undulating terrain enjoyed its own mind games as we kept thinking about the fact we were going to be running back up those fricking hills.
The weather remained cool although the wind started to pick up. The aid stations out on this section were all out in the open and i was keen to get to the turnaround point and back off the Ridgeway. The final hill climb on the way back seemed to go on forever. I am left with little choice but to mention very little of that section as i think Bryan and i just called the climb evey expletive under the sun. Still we got to the final section of descent. Earlier in the day we had seen David Barker here and i remember thinking that it would be nice to get to run down. So Bryan and i picked up the pace and ran back into Goring. So 75 miles done in just over 16hours. As i got my bag and started to prep for the final spur i glanced to my right and realised it David Barker talking to me. What do you mean you are bloody finished. An epic run had seen him home in under 16 hours and even more impressive was James’ sub 15 hour run. Spurred on by their achievements i got myself ready to start the final spur. Bryan left Goring with Allan pacing him. I was given the instruction of “catch us up.” Sounds easy, but with 75 miles in your legs those three little words make for an interesting challenge. One that on this occasion would allude me.

On the final leg i was tired. I mean really tired. The jet lag was biting and biting hard. I could barely keep my eyes open. I honestly had not started this race with a goal target in mind, but severall comments on twitter had made sub 24 a real possibility. I felt this fading away fast as i struggled to stay awake. Plus i had forgotten how hilly this section of the Thames Path is. Even the trees may have blushed at some of my language. Anyway its a short stretch to the first aid station. As i arrived to the detour point on the path i made my way to the aid stations. Allan and Bryan were leaving. I was still within touching distance, but knew i was slowing. My legs felt ok, but i was really tired. So i necked a coffee and a couple of glasses of coke and powered out of the hall. I had to reassess what i was going to get out of this race. I needed to work out how i was going to continue enjoying this last section and finish in a manner that i was happy with. So i pushed on and in the darkness Sam Robson came flying past. I have known Sam for 15 years and so even in the darkness was able to discern it was him. Sam was going strong and was probably as surprised as i was that i was 80 odd miles into the race already. The next 8.5 miles of the race were the toughest. I knew this section and what was to come, but kept slowing to a cruel. I would have spells of clarity, feel awake and be able to power on at a good pace. Suddenly the fatigue would hit and i would be all over the place. I sat against a bulding and closed my eyes for two minutes. I rested against a tree for two minutes and on three occasions i rested my head on a gate for a minute. Yes all this time would really help me feel wide awake (sense the sarcasm). Then i would have a lucid period and question what the fuck i was doing. I mean all i really did in this spell was waste probably 15 to 20 minutes on the route to Reading. Worst still my mind warped back to Goring where i could visualise the bottle of Mountain Dew and can of Red Bull in my bag. How the bloody hell had i rushed out and left them behind. It gets better though as when i unpacked my bag a few days after the event i realised i had pro plus still in my pack. So the mind was knackered and i had forgotten about or left behind all my caffeine options. Bryan and Allan soon came past me. I was about 5 or 10 minutes out from the Aid station and so not that far behind at this point. The bridge i had been waiting for appeared and this meant the Aid Station was a matter of two minutes away. Sure enough there it was and success i had not fallen asleep and dropped into the canal. I took the decision at this point to have a 20 minute power nap. I could have drunk a heap of caffeine and hoped it sustained me, but i wanted to be enjoying this race and so chose a sleep. Overall sleep/jet lag i think had impacted on my race by around 45 minutes.

I set an Alarm and also expressed my intentions to David Barker(yes the same David who had finished the race in under 16 hours and was not helping at Reading.) so i knew he would wake me if my phone failed to. Just like those moments at home when you hit snooze and then the alarm speeds time up and goes off just seconds later. Well thats how it felt. I stood up and felt a bit more awake. I was still drowsy, but not to the level of passing out. I grabbed some food and a few cups of coke and departed down the stairs. The cheers as i left Reading was just what i needed. I bounded down the steps... ok i walked down them... and back onto the Thames Path and the last stretch home. I passed Phil Hall on my way back to Goring. Phil looked strong and i felt confident that with Jon Fielden pacing him i knew Phil would be finishing this race. So i plodded on. The race had got in my head a little and i slowed unnecessarily. It took me about the next hour to really pull my head back. It was my wife encouraging me to push on that snapped me out of it. I knew i had lost over an hour now through jet lag and being a bit of a fool. 24 hours was probably gone now, but Zoe was right press on and see what happens. For the first time in a while i ran and got back into a walk/run combo. My brain had not woken soon enough at Reading or i would have realised then that sub 24 was still a realistic goal. With that said the time was not the primary focus of this race. The timing element really sunk home. I was doing everything i had been advised to do and was still feeling like i had running left in my legs. My training had obviously proved more beneficial than i appreciated. I was supposed to be focused on adapting, enjoying and conquering. So i considerd where i was, checked my watch and revised my plan to sub 25hours.


On my way to my revised target i had run a little with Martin Bushell. He had ruled out 24 hours for himself but pressed on into the difference after a nice conversation about holidays and Disney. I later found out that Martin got unnervingly close to sub 24. Running through the fields the sun was back up and i was nearing the end. I knew i would be finishing and that helped ease things back. Then diving in front of me like a slightly strange photo bomber was Paul Ali. It was great to see him and he turned and ran with me for a little while. The catch up was a great distraction from the task at hand. Paul reminded me that no running was a waste, even if it was only 15 seconds. So i started running from a tree to a tree and then walking the same. This really improved my pace and sense of enjoying the finale of the race and my races for the year in general.

Birds of prey hovering

As i was approaching the end a few people had passed me. I could see them in the distance and decided i would try to reel them in. I was still loving the race and the journey i had been on during this adventure. Sure i knew i was going to have “what ifs?” floating around my head after the race, but i had to consider everyone in context. I had kept to race plan and the actions i had agreed with Eddie. I was adapting and enjoying. I had run faster to this point than i sincerely thought i was ever capable of and for the first 75 miles kept pace with a good friend of mine who had this year become a far quicker more competent runner than i. Best of all that 75 miles had been some of the most fun i have had on the trails. With all that in mind nothing about this race was going to be a failure regardless of time.

There of course comes the catch. 25 hours was now in my head. I wanted a time starting with 24. This became my new motivation and on i went. Then it happened i started to recognise the pathway and knew i was approaching the last mile of the race. Dog walkers were cheering and other runners were encouraging me as i passed them. I had one parting obscenity for the climbs and then glanced at my watch..... 6 minutes to go! I saw the distinct overhanging tree that my brain had mentally logged as the start of the trail on the way out. Conversely this meant i was about to hit pavement. So i ran and promised myself i would not stop until the finish. Then i saw the bridge in the distance... 4 minutes to go. So i picked up the pace again. I could feel i had a sprint in me, but time it wrong and i would be blowing up before the finish line. I could hear my little boy in my mind. Before he starts running he will always shout “booster feet on.” So i picked my moment and “booster feet on.” I started to sprint and sprint hard... 2 minutes left. I veered right at the bridge and pegged it. I could see my sun in the distance on his uncle’s shoulders. Normally i would stop and take him to the finish, but... 1 minute left. I legged it past them and turned through the door and stopped my watch. YES! I did it. Well according to my watch i had. I was relieved when Natasha Fielden and Gemma Greenwood confirmed that i had finished the A100 in 24hours 59 minutes and 40 seconds.



After the finish i was so tired, but elated. A massive hug with Nici and then my family and i was done. At the end of the race Nici and Natasha both shared that there had been some conversations about me running. Nothing negative but just a realisation that i was choosing to run only 48 hours after landing from Florida. I was running despite no longer contending for the Grandslam. Bryan had earlier said to me that he possibly would not have run. It crossed my mind after NDW100 not to run this race, but i felt i needed the finish and i wanted to see where i was now at going into winter training. The race gave me back more than i could ever have anticipated. I am not talking about the Centurion organisation and the brilliance of their volunteers, as that goes without saying. This race somehow has been a huge factor in changing my thinking in relation to running. Before i would look at other people’s finishing times and think that their pace was just unattainable and only gifted runners could achieve such times. During this race i felt strong and i felt capable. I realised that this was off the back of 8 weeks of consistent training. I was then left wondering what i can achieve with a consistent few months of training. I now saw the quality times of the fastest runners as something to work towards rather than be frightened of. No more glass ceiling in my mind of what i (or anyone) could achieve.

I spoke with James Elson at the end and he completely got why i felt the need to run and the outcomes justified that. So my finishing time was 2 hours 8 minutes off my 100 miler PB. It was also 2hrs 46min faster than any 100 miler i had done this year.

Nope not tired... Not one bit

So my Race calendar was concluded for the year. I didn’t quite make the Centurion Grandslam. 376 miles out of 400 was my final total. Its easy to lose sight of the achievements made. This year i have set a PB and completed 3 out of 4 100 milers. I am now being trained by Eddie Sutton and am inspired to see what we can achieve by May next year. I attribute substantial amounts of my progress to Eddie’s plans. I have a coach who cares about my running and my enjoys seeing me improve. Being the best you can be is her mantra and i truly believe this. With her help i am finding the balance of family and dedicated training. So next I will be running GUCR in 2016 and revisiting the Centurion Grandslam in 2017. With consistency to my training who knows what will happen at these races? But, maybe... just maybe........

Not a bad years haul

Written by Paul Nesbitt - https://pabloruns.wordpress.com

“To talk much and arrive nowhere is the same as climbing a tree to catch a fish” – Chinese Proverb.

I actually caught a fish in a tree once.

I pulled too hard when reeling the wee boyo in & he flicked up into the tree opposite us – I haven’t been fishing since. But if this part of the proverb can be inverted, so can the other. I’ve been doing alot of talking ever since that fateful trip around a wee forest in Kildare.

Am I walking funny?
Will I ever be able to run again?
Look at my right butt cheek, is it flexing as much as my left one?
Is this calf higher than the other?
Do you still love me even though I’m kind of bald?

Poor Stace, she has alot to put up with.

So since Donadea – we’ve had a wee boy I like to call ‘Alex’. I like to call him that because it’s his name. Evan has also came into his own with such activities as filling his toys with spit & growling at flies before he tries to eat them. Oh, and we’re also moving house this week too. What better time for me to head into the Mournes for the day! :)

So I met Declan and our adventure would begin! The weather was absolutely stinking! Now, men of the mountains such as ourselves would never be deterred by a spot of rain, oh no!…it’s as well we’re not really men of the mountains then isn’t it because we whinged our way up the road about how wet we would get & what a day we had ahead of us. We also compared our waterproof blusher & eyeliner…

We arrived at the picturesque setting of Kilbroney forest for the start, well I assume it was Kilbroney because you couldn’t really actually see anything! So after collecting our numbers and chips and deliberating over how the heck you clip the chip onto a pair of Salomons!? – We worked it out eventually – we assembled at the start line for the off.

The climb out of Kilbroney is always a long slog but is also good opportunity for a bit of banter. It just so happened that we started near the back of the field so started passing people and having the craic – I got chatting to Noel & Nicki here, who both had awesome runs!

The weather eased off for a short while and the coats all came off. It was just after this that virtually the entire field of runners took a wrong turn up one of the trails off the main path (Some wee hallion had obviously been tinkering with the signs!) Everyone was just turning round as me and Declan hit the mistaken diversion so as they shouted ‘WRONG WAY!!’ I took my opportunity to shout “I’M WINNING!! – I put a sprint on for about 0.3 miniseconds and I was winning the Mourne Ultra after half a mile!!

This was incredibly short lived. If only NIrunning did race updates every 100 yards…

There’s not really much I can tell you about the actual running apart from I felt surprisingly good. I’d been pretty concerned about my achilles over the last few months. I’ve definitely struggled with my training, mentally & physically. Where I was 5 weeks ago – I had to pull out of pacing duties at Belfast marathon (I was meant to be the replacement for someone else too!) as my achilles insertion became unbearable to run or walk on 4 days before the race. I’m sure I was a misery to live with, but she still puts up with me for some reason. (I reckon it’s the stunning good looks & how good I am at the housework)

I’m going to jump to the finish here and ruin the story but I managed to finish on Saturday in 10hrs 33 mins shaving 20 minutes off last years time and almost 40 minutes off the year before. To get the Mourne Ultra finished was my only target this weekend, 14 hours would have done me. But doing it faster than before & getting away injury free is just flippin’ awesome! It’s really gave me a huge boost in confidence for UTMB.

It was actually quite warm and I would say apart from the odd apocalyptic torrential rain shower, conditions from the feet up were grand. Actually what am I talking about, there was also a big cloud full of rain that brought visibility to 0%. It reminded me of that smoke monster from ‘Lost’.

The Smoke Monster – Courtesy of NIrunning

As my granny would say “Them hills are in gutters!”

…actually no, she wouldn’t say that at all. What she would really say  is “Dear blessus pet, sure what the blazes are ye doing going up into them mountains getting yourself all dirty. Mon to your granny for a hug”.

Anyway, yes I’ve ran in better conditions up there and what with the injury & wee bambino coming on the scene, I haven’t been in the Mournes this year at all. I’d love to say I was moving free & agile across the terrain like a majestic snow leopard but I was probably more like a constipated flamingo. All legs & not knowing what to do with them. Thank goodness for the forest trails where I could actually make up a bit of time!!

I caught up with Declan and ran with him to the turnaround at Donard forest. Sure look how fresh we look here! Only 26 miles to go!

She’s a damp one wha? – Courtesy of NIrunning

After eating a bit and throwing a bit all over my face (I left pasta in my drop bag but didn’t bring a fork) I started the climb out towards the top of the tree-line again. All fairly straight forward here – I would run, I would trip, I would almost fall. And Repeat.

I met Craig Lloyd as I reached the top of the climb back into Tollymore, we shared a man-hug. He was setting out for the double Ultra in training for UTMB but unfortunately missed the cutoffs – still a great effort covering 70 miles in the end!

Then on the descent down the other side, I bumped into a guy from Italy…

“What about some faaking cokk?” was his greeting.

This startled me. I’d forgotten the pain in my quads for just a moment. A few things went through my head, had he got the right event? Why did he want chicken?

“Sorry, what?” was all I could muster.

“Cokk! Cokk! Some energy, some sugar!”

“Ahhhhhhh! Coke!”

Upon the realisation that it was now safe enough to run with this guy, he told me how it was his first ultra. I think his name was Stefan & he seemed like a nice guy, Couldn’t have picked a better first ultra I told him. “At the finish, then I believe you!” came his response. He finished well, in around 10hrs 20mins I think.

Constipated Flamingo on the only bit of road on the course – Courtesy of NIrunning

The half marathon guys caught me a bit later this year which was good as I was out into the open bog after Spelga by the time this wave of runners hit.

“You running the Ultra fella?” shouted a wee woman as she ran with me for a bit.

“Aye, well running might be an exaggeration at this stage…”

“Fair play!”

SCHLLLUMP!

I thought it was a thin layer of bog. Alas, no apparently I had just launched myself into the deepest hole in the Mournes.

“Ahhh, ye alright!? Let me help ye out” said she.

Now I’m all for people getting to the finish as quick as they can and would never look to affect anyones race plan but I think she suddenly realised by helping me, she may lose some vital seconds on her finish time – so she proceeded to put her hands under me as if she was ‘demonstrating’ how lifting someone out of a hole should look. Y’know, just in case you may ever have to do something like that.

“Ahh, no chance” she muttered.

And away she went!!!

Leaving me with one leg in a hole and the other almost round the back of my head. The best imagery I can conjure up is that it must have looked like I was trying to climb into myself.

I couldn’t stop laughing for a while after that, just picturing her blazing off into the distance. I met her at the finish and we had a good laugh about it. I can’t say I won’t harbour a secret grudge that will culminate in something like medieval tickle torture. Please understand that I don’t mean to hurt anyone, just tickle them alot. So she may watch her back…

I always love the last drop back down into Kilbroney park. The legs were knackered but they always seem to get a bit of life back for this stage. Before I knew it, I was standing at the finish chatting with the lads about mascara & how well my eyeliner held…

Three Amigos. Olé!

And with that, there was the Mourne Ultra for another year. A truly awesome event that went so much better than I could have expected! Next Up. UTMB.

Oh aye…As I write this I think something might have bit me, I’m a wee bit itchy…

Bitten. – Rough I know, but a photo of me taking this one would have been a much worse sight…

Written by Caolan MacMahon - http://www.chronicrunner.com

 
The thing about a 50k is that it really isn't a big deal. I mean, if you've run a few marathons (I've run more than a few) then it's no biggie, right? - 5 extra miles.  Baaaaaaa. How can you even call that an "ultra"?

And then it's a week away and the freak sets in. This was a little bit like giving birth (or the anticipation of it) for me. I never took a childbirth class - When I asked my doc if I should, she said, "Well, it depends on how comfortable you are with the whole thing". I spoke to all my momma friends and asked: "Did you get anything out of taking a childbirth class?" The singular reply I got was: "I learned how to breathe in and out", with accompanying demonstrations of the crucial breathing technique. Well, I thought, I already know how to do that. And I thought to myself, well, women have been giving birth since the beginning of humankind, so what's the big deal. Then at about 39 weeks I started to freak. It hit me: "OH MY GOD, this thing has to come out of me!!!". And a 50k felt the same way. It was no big deal, until it was right there and I had to do something I had never done before...

 

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

We land at the Manchester-Boston International Airport at midnight. Exiting the building from baggage claim to collect the rental car, we walk smack into an invisible wall of humidity. I let out a sigh and a quiet, resigned, 'uggggg', and we load up and head for the Econo Lodge.

The next day we head to Maine. The weather is heavy and thick. I know that lower altitude is supposed to feel good. I'm supposed to feel all light and oxygen enriched, but in reality I usually feel the weight of all that extra oxygen. Add to this the fact that my sinuses are in total revolt, and I feel like I'm moving through a world of mud with a fish bowl on my head - And I can honestly say that I am not feeling very psyched.

Two days before my first 50k, and I barely (NO exaggeration) stumble through 4.4 miles of jogging.

So for the next two days I fortify myself with Sudafed and nighttime Ibuprofen. I gotta clear this noggin, and I gotta sleep. NOW. I can not actually imagine running this thing right now.

I chill. We sail out to Little Whaleboat Island. I sleep. Things improve, a little.

 You can barely tell that my head is about to explode and make a big fat mess all over the deck, can ya??

 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

And then we make our way north, a drive my husband and I used to make so often, from Brunswick to Bar Harbor to climb on Mount Desert. It has been a very long time. So much is the same - exactly the same as it was 19 years ago. That is both comforting and disconcerting. I'm not the same. And yet, I am the same.

 

We make our way through Southwest Harbor, in a steady rain, to the Seawall Motel situated right at a natural seawall.  It's thick-as-pea-soup foggy out now - and the cool, salty moisture feels good. Except for the gently lapping surf, all is quiet darkness out across the bay where I know Great Cranberry Island sits in wait. I stand on the second floor walkway, and look out where I know the island sleeps. I still can't quite get my head around this...

 

I wake at 7:30. At this time the air has a cool nip to it. If only we could be running now! The race starts at 11:30 (to allow people to get out to the island and for those who are camping to have time to set up their tents), but the boats only leave every two hours, so I need to catch the 9 a.m. boat. After a frantic search for the ferry dock (small Maine towns like to keep things interesting for those "from away") I jump out of the car in a bit of a fluster bid farewell to my husband and daughter, and trot down to the dock barely catching the boat. 

 

I'm on the boat with Jill (no longer 'just' a facebook friend) and her boyfriend Brian. Lot's of Marathon Maniacs on board - lots of chatter, introductions, stories shared - and we all know, or perhaps we don't know, what's coming. And I can't help but feel that we are somehow sailing off to battle...And I am reminded of what often plays through my head at these times:

From Shakespeare's Henry V, 1598:

KING HENRY V:
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

 

I know. A little over the top. A little melodramatic, but there's something to it!

And all is peaceful...The calm before it all begins...

 

We arrive at the island and there are pickup trucks and decrepit island cars and golf carts a plenty to haul our stuff the 1/2 mile up the hill to the start. As we walk up this hill, it dawns on me that soon I will be running up it, quite a few times.

 

Then there's time to kill - it's only 9:30. I get my bib, introduce myself to Gary Allen (RD and head of Crow Athletic, a northern Maine running club of which I'm actually a member), park my self and my stuff in a shady spot on the porch of a church and stroll over to a little cafe for some much need coffee.

 

Clouds obscure the sun, but each time the sun comes out of hiding it feels like a stab of heat. Please, more clouds.

 

Finally 11:30 approaches. Speeches are made, the national Anthem is sung, and we're off...

 Thus begins the journey of 7.5 laps of  the island...

And everyone seems to take off like a shot. Here's what I'm thinking: "Ummm, folks, we have 31 miles to go. Where's everyone off to so fast??" You'd think that most of us have been around the proverbial block a few times and know better than to try to pull a jack rabbit start - but no. Everyone's happily chatting along as if this was just a fun little island jaunt. What's wrong with me??  Lots of people are running with friends. I have no friends - well Jill is here somewhere, but I don't know where. I trot along, alone, and the arch of my right foot is screaming at me. Now, I do have a right foot injury (from twisting my foot in a hardened horse hoof print on the trail months ago) nagging me (peroneal tendonitis at the 5th metatarsal attachment) but it's never been that arch! Okay. Work it out. (WTF!!)

We round the first turnaround and I'm heading back, seeing the people coming the other way. I spot Jill and Brian. We high five. A guy with a mohawk yells out "Go Chronic". I chuckle and wave, not sure I heard it right and too surprised to say anything. And the first miles tick along...

During this race we pass over the start/finish line, ummmm, I don't know, 14, 15 times - Oh, I can't possibly do the math. Our names are announced, and as always, people struggle with mine. But as I cross and head down the hill toward the next turnaround I hear my name. Then I hear, "Hey, I'm Facebook friends with you" over the loudspeakers. I wave and trot off.

Any remaining clouds burn off within the first hour and the sun beats down from the blue bird blue skies. The only saving grace is slight breeze that feels like a gift from the gods, though the gods could be a bit more generous!

Again I pass the guy with the mohawk - I hear, "Good job Chronic". Okay. I did hear that. "I can't believe you know that!", I call back. "Thanks". He responds, "It's easier than your real name". Then I hear a runner, 'Jim' is on his bib, call out, "Good job Caolan".

And so it goes, lap after lap after lap after lap. You see the same people, over and over and over. You cheer everyone on. They cheer you on. You get to 'know' them is a strange sense. The Islanders come out. They see how you're doing on lap 2...on lap 6... two women have cheered for me each time I pass their house: Lap 6 "Caolan, you're so consistent, so strong. great job" Ummm, I don't feel that way!

As the 80+ish heat and 75+% humidity begin to wear on me I stop at the table where we stash our stuff and pull out my bottle of HEED, pouring it into a smaller handheld. This is valuable time, time I don't ever allow in a marathon - but hey - THIS is an ULTRA, right? I do this 4 times over the course of the run, but I'm glad I did, even though I now wonder just how much time I "wasted" doing that.

As I cross the mark entering my last lap, I see my husband and daughter. My husband asks how much I have to go. Another lap, I tell him - which of course means nothing to him - but to me it means this is the hard one - the last 4 miles. And this lap is hard - really really hard. At the final turn, I can no longer calculate how far I have to go. I look at my Garmin, but still I'm second guessing it. Is it 1 or 2 miles left. Oh, I give up. Just run.

My adductors are cramping on the uphill, cambered roads - and I'm trying to delay the inevitable. With half a mile to go I suddenly realize that it's not the mile and a half I thought I had left. I see the flags that line the road leading to the finish, and my legs come alive. I push with all I have up the final hill to the finish. 5:04:44.

As usual, all is a blur after I cross the mat. All I can think is: "I gotta get these shoes off NOW". A volunteer runs up to me and loops a medal/belt buckle over my head. Another runs over with my finishers 'rock'. My daughter runs to me, excitedly animated as always asking things I can't quite make sense of. I hobble over to my bags - and stand there trying to figure out what to do first. I can't really move.

 

I wait for Jill. I talk with the people I've spent this long day with: Jim, Bob, Nancy, Maddy, John, Shawn, Zach and Juli... etc...all people I know now - who I didn't know this morning. 

 

We make our way the half mile back down to the boat dock. Doug (Welch), the guy with the mohawk, is still running, now with a beer in hand.

 

"How do I know you?" I call out to him. He walks over to me, "Facebook and your blog". "I really appreciate your support today. Thanks", I say. We chat for a bit. We hug, and he trots off up the hill.

 

And as we wait for our ferry back to Southwest Harbor, I stand in the icy waters looking across Frenchman’s Bay to Mount Desert and the rolling blue hills. And I am tired and hungry and salty and achy to the bone...and happy.

 

 

 

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And that's the story of my first 'ultra'. Does that make me an "ultramarathoner"? I don't know. But it has changed me. And now the story continues...

“You gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which you really stop to look fear in the face...You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”  Eleanor Roosevelt