Goal achieved: A hug from Nici 

Why?

Runners are often advised to “Be crystal clear about why you are doing a particular race. If you bring this to mind, it can help you get through the inevitable difficult patches.”

“Because it seemed like a good idea at the time.” Sorted.

 

No, really. Why?

Ostensibly so that I can earn the right to enter the lottery for “the world’s oldest and most prestigious 100-mile trail race” (http://www.wser.org/). I would do this by completing any one of three qualifying 100s I have signed up for in 2015. These are all organised by Centurion Running (http://www.centurionrunning.com/).

Centurion awards a shiny belt buckle to anyone who finishes one of their 100-mile races within certain cut-off times (28 hours for TP 100).

Centurion also offers special belt buckles for people who finish any of their 100-mile races in under 24 hours. They bear the inscription “100 miles in a day.” They’re kind of cool. I wanted one.

Of Centurion’s 100-milers, the Thames Path 100 is by far the flattest. If I wanted a special belt buckle – and I did – it seemed I was most likely to get one at this event. And if I was to have any chance of getting one at any of the other Centurion 100s, I’d better be able to get one at TP 100, right? “If I can’t make it there, can’t make it anywhere” and all that.

Centurion puts on a 4th 100 that isn’t a Western States qualifier. If people complete all four Centurion 100s in a year (the so-called Grand Slam) they get an extra special buckle. That is, they get an additional buckle that isn’t like the others. It’s not that “extra special” in the way that the “100 miles in a day” buckles are extra special. The Grand Slam buckle has the inscription “400 miles in a year”. That’s really not very impressive at all. Hardly anyone I know doesn’t run far more than 400 miles in a year. Now if it said, “Four 100-mile finishes in a year”, that would be impressive. Pedant, moi?

Anyway, I digress. A-goal – get a Western States qualification (and stay in the running for a Grand Slam buckle), i.e., finish. B-goal – get the really cool buckle, i.e., finish in under 24-hours.

There’s nothing like unqualified positivity

“Is there anything I can say to make you not race?” asked Bobbie, my wife. “You might die or damage yourself really badly.”  Bobbie worries.

“Philip says it’s crazy for you to do this race”, reported Bobbie. Philip routinely races cars at stupidly high speeds so his judgement that someone else is crazy probably has some gravitas.

At least I wasn’t going to be running on a Bank Holiday weekend like I did on Easter Saturday at the South Downs Way 50, four weeks earlier. Oh wait. Yes, yes I was.

So, it was unanimous. Everyone I knew who was not a runner appeared certain that me attempting the TP 100 miles was selfish, irresponsible, and foolish.

Not wanting to add grist to everyone’s mill, I did not reveal any of my own anxieties about the race. 

Only weak and worthless scum contemplate the possibility of failure

Ultra-runners on social media exude all sorts of confidence: in their opinions as well as their abilities. They are a relentlessly “can do” bunch who seemingly cannot and will not contemplate anything but positivity. They’re also a tad macho.

“You don’t need luck but do need grit, grind and iron will power” suggested one ultra-guru. “I won't wish you luck as this is not required due to your indomitable spirit to overcome” opined another. Übermensch or what!?

Oh great. So if I don’t finish I’ll not only prove my critics right, I’ll expose to the world what a spineless, spiritless, worthless piece of shite I am.

I do have one quality that I’m told can be quite useful in ultras, though. Cussedness. “Fuck the lot of you”, I muttered to myself. I’m going to give this a go even though I know failure is not only an option; it is quite likely. Many people who sign up for 100-milers don’t make the start line. Many who do don’t make it to the end. Fact. (Also, many who ‘fail’ do so for very sensible reasons, like living to race another day.)

I was impressed last year by an opinion expressed by Tom Williams on the Marathon Talk podcast (www.marathontalk.com). He said that people should fail about half of the challenges they set themselves. If they never failed, they never really challenged themselves. I wanted to try the 100 miler because I knew failure was quite likely. I wanted to see if I could do it. I would find it properly satisfying if I could.

 

Speaking of spineless

Only an idiot thinks there will be no pain in an ultra. What I hadn’t taken into consideration was the pain I was in before this ultra. My back ‘went’ on Sunday night and I could not move from sitting to standing or vice versa without wincing in pain. The backache eased ever so slightly each day but I felt it would be touch and go whether it would be sensible to turn up on the start line and I’d need to be very diligent about stopping if running made things worse. But maybe this was just a rather dramatic manifestation of taper niggles. You know, perhaps my mind was a feeble as my spirit and this was all psychosomatic. Time would tell.

Packing it in

I quite like preparing for ultras. There are many problems that can be made or avoided in good packing and planning. Also, I am a Virgo and anal-retentive, depending on which pseudoscience you prefer. Unfortunately, I was too immobile to be able to pack until the Friday morning before the race. I was pleased with the result, though.

“The great thing about running is that you can just put on your shoes and go”

Not so grim up north

Not wanting to put myself at the mercy of the railways, I travelled to Richmond on Friday evening and stayed with Eleanor.

Base camp – Thanks, Eleanor

Having expressed the standard (and welcome) incredulity and made the obligatory joke (“There’s a lovely train service to Oxford, you know”), Eleanor showed a genuine interest in the race and in my plans, hopes, and fears. It felt like expert person-centred counselling and it was very welcome. I have a lot to be thankful to Eleanor for and I am indeed very thankful. Not least for breakfast!

Perfect – THANKS, Eleanor!!!

A tight ship

Registration and kit check went much as expected. Marshals and volunteers stayed calm and so did many of the competitors. I had prepared well and passed kit check without a hitch.

Centurion Kit Check is rigorous (Thanks, Mark Thornbury)

Waiting to set sail

Proud to have managed to get to the start line and committed to stop if it seemed foolish to carry on, I eavesdropped others’ conversations:

“He’s said he’ll turn up at the start line, which means he’s failed before he starts”, said one runner to the general agreement of a group of friends. “Yeah. You’ve got to be certain that you’ll finish or you’ve guaranteed your failure.” (They may have said “…you’re a failure”. It was difficult to be sure phonetically.)

Before dropping my bags (of stuff I might need but did not have to carry, e.g., spare shoes) to be taken to Miles 51 (Henley), 71 (Streatley), and 100 (Oxford), I checked my phone. A friend (Donna) had sent me a text wishing me a good weekend and her daughter (Anna) had wished me luck. I wrote back to thank Anna profusely. Finally, someone who recognised that I am not completely in control of the universe and some luck might be helpful! Of course, I am not wholly at the mercy of the universe either and was committed to finish if I possibly could … fate willing.

I also rang Bobbie who told me that she would see me at Aid Station 2, Wraysbury, then meet up with our friend Linda (Phillip’s better half) and they would both see me later on, too.

Strategy? What strategy?

I had spent many hours in the run up to the race trying to work out where I was likely to be and when, so that any support team I had could choose where to meet up with me. I eventually cobbled together a very rough, very tentative list of times that might approximate when I would reach each crew-accessible aid station if I were to finish in a little shy of 24 hours. (Past years’ results and Roz Glover’s much-appreciated generosity made this possible.) I made a wristband to give me some sense of progress ‘on the day’ but did not plan to target particular paces. Instead, I wanted to run by feel. Specifically, I wanted to run slowly enough that I could run for as long as possible. (I hate walking in races.) I had two guides for this. The first was to imagine that I was jogging to the start of a race and wanted to arrive ready to give it some. The second was to imagine that I had to run non-stop from my home in Brighton to my son’s university near Colchester (I guess in some sort of post-Apocalyptic world where reliable transportation between the two did not exist). The latter would take some discipline and require that I didn’t gain seconds in early miles to lose minutes in later ones (more than would inevitably happen in an ultra).

Plan the race and then make it up as you go along

And they’re off

Congratulations to everyone on the start line

There are 11 miles between the start and the first aid station at Walton-on-Thames. (All Centurion distances are approximate and some later ones in this race I am sure are downright lies.) I jogged along happily until getting trapped in the corral made by a one-person-at-a-time kissing gate. Scores of more experienced and better-prepared runners streamed past by taking a slightly different route. I stayed calm. There will be issues in any ultra and working around them, or even turning them to your advantage, seems a key component to success.

It heated up very quickly and so did I. I was pleased to have accepted slight chilliness at the start so that I was wearing only a tee-shirt now. Lots of other runners paused very early to partially disrobe.  

Despite their penchant for sloganizing, ultra runners tend to be a quite chilled-out lot. I do not fit in easily on that score, either. When running, I often ratchet up from my already-high baseline of grumpiness. And so it came to pass. On narrow paths, another runner tucked in on my left shoulder and stayed there for miles. He had every right to be there, of course. He may even have thought we were being companionable. But it irritated the tits off me. It made me hyper-conscious that “we” might be making it hard for people to pass from ahead or behind. (I strive hard to be other-considerate.) I tried to give myself a talking-to about my poor attitude but the reply I gave myself shocked me! How rude!

The first aid station was a table at the path side. I grabbed some stuff quick and bolted off as soon as possible. I lost my tail. Hurrah for camaraderie!

 

That is a smile and that is not a beer gut (Thanks, Nigel Rothwell)

Having found some personal space, my mind was free to wander. It wondered about possible race reports. Was this going to be another “Ultras are kid of dull” report? Or maybe another “Will he make it?” attempt to build suspense. Or perhaps another pathetic mock-grumpy “Anything to make ’em laugh” effort? “No”, I thought. “Let’s have a ‘No drama’ report.” Let’s just get the job done, not get overly excited over trivia, and leave worrying about how to write a decent race report for another time. If all I end up saying is “I did it!”, I will be delighted and loyal fans will be spared another overly-long epic race report. Job done. (Not how things turned out. Sorry!)

There was another 11-mile jaunt to Aid Station 2 at Wraysbury. It was good to get these longest legs out of the way early-doors. It was also nice just gently reeling in the first 22 miles.

Upon reaching the Aid Station area, I looked around for Bobbie but could not see her. The aid station itself was inside a building – up a flight of steps. (This proved to be a bit of a thing on this course. What TP100 lacks in “natural elevation” it makes up for in steps to aid stations and bridges across the Thames.)

Bobbie was not inside. A feast and friendly crowd were, though.

Wraysbury Aid Station, before the hordes descended

Something must be said at some time in this report about Centurion’s Staff, Volunteers, and Aid Stations. It might as well be now. It will be much the same as everyone else says on the matter because the facts are indisputable. We have already established that I am a curmudgeonly bugger but Centurion support is second to none. Aid Stations are outstanding and those manning them are beyond exceptional. To a man and woman, people were experienced, enthusiastic, supportive, expert, sympathetic, admiring, and cheerful. Food was well selected, various, generous, and often home-made. In ultras I thrive on Coke, tea, fruit, and whatever other calories I can face, usually in some sort of fat-and-salt combination (crisps, pork pies, etc.). At almost every aid station I could have my pick and as much as I wanted (and I’m a greedy git, notwithstanding that not being a gut). At no aid station did I have to refill my own water bottle. At every aid station, the people were tremendous and I sincerely appreciate and thank them for it. Thank you all.

Skipping gaily back down the steps to the great outdoors, I had another look around for Bobbie and headed off again, river to my right. In front of me, about half a dozen runners turned left, inland, away from the water. I looked around but could see no Centurion markings that I should leave the river. Glancing behind, I saw another half a dozen runners also heading inland. I figured so many people couldn’t be wrong and gave thanks that I was not on my own. I would have continued straight upstream, no question. I noted how lucky I was to be in a group at that stage. Thanks Anna - and Simon Robinson, who wished every individual runner “Good Luck” on Facebook, and also Mark Johnson who I bullied into wishing me “Bon chance” against his will. Good luck kept me on course several times over the remaining miles, too. It wasn’t infallible, though…

It’s fun running besides the Thames. Quite apart from seeing lots of houses one could never afford, one gets to see a lot of rowers. Anyone who has ever done any rowing knows how physically hard it is. Every time I saw a boat I thought about how pleased I was to be jogging.

At one stage we also ran past some barges that seemed to be being canvassed by the local Conservative party. That made me smile for some reason. (Edit: The Tories won a General Election within the week...)

Bobbie wasn’t at the next checkpoint, either (Dorney, Mile 30.5). A little later I got a passer-by to get my phone out of my bag and I tried to ring her. No answer. I wondered whether I should be worried and perhaps ring Linda or the kids. I left a message asking Bobbie to me ring back.

Eventually I rang Bobbie again. Maybe she’d crashed and was lying alone in hospital while I ran on oblivious. Linda answered the phone as Bobbie was driving. They said they’d see me at Henley.

Henley is an important aid station. It has the first drop bag, requiring decisions about whether to change any kit or shoes. It also requires decisions about whether to linger and enjoy hot foot (at risk of never leaving again) or press on and make the most of the remaining daylight. I gave it some thought and decided to be in and out as soon as possible, changing nothing and foregoing the hot food. Henley also marks the half-way point and I looked forward to being on the part of the course where counting down miles was as sensible as counting them up. 

As an aside (because, you know, I haven’t reached the word-limit yet), some advice that I did find useful was “Run from aid Station to aid station”. Thinking about “Miles gone” or “Miles to come” can be a bit overwhelming. Thinking, “Only x miles to the next aid station” was much more manageable, as was anything that ‘broke up’ the course, actually. “Let’s do the next marathon distance nice and easy, too”, for example, or Robbie Britton’s beautifully ambiguous slogan, “The first 80 miles are easy”. Anyway, back to our normal programing.

Henley’s Heroes (at Mile 51)

Henley’s helpers definitely make a bit of an effort to put on a show and to raise a smile. It is a busy checkpoint and I looked around slightly manically for Bobbie and Linda. Seeing them nowhere and wanting to execute my plan to press on and make full use of daylight, I decided to do just that. I wondered if in my increasingly-tired state I had misunderstood which checkpoint they planned to meet me at. As I walked on with a mug of tea, I dug out my phone again.

“We’re just arriving”, wailed Bobbie, clearly in distress. I turned back so that I could say hi and thank them for their support before pressing on. I reassured all the concerned people running  ‘the other’ way that I was fine, given that I was giving every appearance of trudging back to the aid station (which is usually done only in considerable distress and discomfort).

Having wished the ladies a good night, I concentrated on getting back to moving forwards.

The detour into Reading Town Centre was a disappointment. Not a Shameless re-enactment in sight. Running was also not what it could be. By this stage my form could be accurately described as “walking”. My quads, in particular, were feeling as though they were being prepared for pâté. Imagine my delight when I realised where the entrance to the aid station was.

An outpost of civilization: Reading Aid Station (Mile 58)

Once again, though, the people and fuel in the aid station were just wonderful. I should also say at this point that I did exchange a few words with several runners on route, all of whom were delightful. I did not run with anyone or make any new life-long pals, though, as is common in ultras. I wonder why when I’m such a welcoming, friendly, cheerful, sociable sort of a guy.

As I was leaving Reading, one of a pair of remarkably well-informed drunks shouted out that there were “Only 40 miles to go.” My reply of “Thanks a lot!” may have sounded a little sarcastic. The other drunk said loudly, “He hates you now…” Unsure whether he was talking to his mate about me or warning me about his psychopathic, homicidal mate, I stepped up the pace a bit for a short while (relatively speaking).

(Warning: Things get a bit blurry and chaotic from this point in the report, mirroring exactly my state of mind as the night progressed. Nevertheless, these are the facts as I recall them.)

A highlight for me was being greeted just before an aid station (I can’t remember which one) by a dancing cheerleader (in the rain and dark). That cheered me up no end.

Another highlight was being greeted warmly by name by two women at the Streatley Aid Station (Mile 71). I confess I had and have no idea who they were/are. I can think of two possibilities. First, my face-blindness (prosopagnosia if you want to look it up) was doing its usual thing and I was failing to recognise people who I probably know really, really well, like a lot, etc. - in which case I can only offer my usual but very sincere apologies. I am literally disabled but I know it can be upsetting when I fail to recognise people. (If it is any comfort, I have twice failed to recognise extremely close family members.) The second possibility is that they had looked up my name from my race number and were messing with me, in which case, “Well played”!

Streatley Aid Station (Mile 71)

I can’t remember the exact sequence but the ‘running’ between Streatley and Clifton Hampden was among the least enjoyable I have ever done. Most of it was walking as it didn’t feel possible to run safely (or at all) on the sodden wet mudgrass. And it went on forever. Forever, ever. Endless field followed endless field followed endless field. Walking is so slow! And boring! And time-consuming!

It was at this point, I think, that I started re-evaluating my goals. It was clear that running ultras sucks. Did I really care about running Western States? Did I really want to run another three 100s this year even if I completed this one and even if I did so within 24-hours? What was the point of that, especially as it was clearly massively inconvenient to everyone, irresponsibly time-consuming, and so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so boring?! As low patches go, it was a trivial one. But it wasn’t a highlight and it was definitely in my interest to try to snap out of it.

I sought to distract my mind with some reassuring maths. That’s how low I’d sunk. Someone had posted on Facebook that people could run at least 20-30 miles once dawn broke. I figured that if I got to Clifton Hampden (85 miles) by daybreak, that should make it possible for me to cover the remaining 15 miles in 4 ½ hours, easy. This would tick a lot of boxes and I could evaluate or re-evaluate longer-term goals when in a fitter state to do so.

Slowly it dawned on me (geddit?) that the guru had been talking about it being possible to do 20ish miles in daylight before the final cut-off – not before the 24-hour cut off. Too tired, bored, and fed-up to do any more meaningful calculations, I listened to the birds’ singing on National Dawn Chorus Day (truly!). They sounded pathetic.

Eventually, after an extra little mountainous ascent, I reached Clifton Hampden Aid Station. Refreshed by sustenance, some compliments (I think) about my apparent lady bumps (bottles in my rucksack chest straps covered by my waterproof jacket), and an upon-request Groucho Marx impression, I left again quickly.

Clifton Hampden Aid Station (Mile 85)

Back to the mad maths. With 15 (Centurion) miles to go and about 3 hours before 10 am, I figured I had to run 12-minute miles. On tricky terrain in my state? No way. I then recalculated and concluded that I actually needed to run 20-minute miles. Whilst not a foregone conclusion, that did not seem quite so impossible. However, the thought of being on my feet for another 3 hours filled me with ennui and dread. I started to run. I continued to run even when the ground got so rutted that it really didn’t seem a very good idea to do so. I passed runner after runner, all of whom congratulated me and wished me well.

I then saw what looked like the most handsome man in the world (maybe I was hallucinating after all?) who yelled enthusiastically about the fact I was running. The woman with him shook her pom-poms. Her again! I couldn’t have been happier. I told her she was my favourite. She beamed and chortled. On I ran, invincible.

I ran pretty much all the way to the Abingdon Aid Station (91 miles). The lovely volunteers there told me that it was flat and beautiful running to the next checkpoint. This is what the Race Organiser had told them and a volunteer who ran the TP 100 the previous year confirmed this story.

I say story. I mean fiction. In fact, I mean downright, bare-face, malicious, malevolent, horrible lie. The next 4 miles were the least enjoyable I have ever run in my life (or at least since leaving the meadows between Streatley and Clifton Hampden). Well, now I’m lying. It must be contagious. I don’t think I ran a step. I don’t think I could. The surroundings may have been pretty (were it not pissing with rain for the 300th consecutive hour) but the ground was horrible. I trudged on while the ground nibbled at what remained of my soul. Once again, I did little but wonder when the next aid station would appear. (My Garmin gave up at 80 miles. Wimp!)

The Lower Radley Aid Station (95 miles) looked exactly like an aid station in the middle of purgatory should look: like an unfinished car-park primarily constructed to hide dead bodies.

Lower Radley Aid Station (Mile 95)

I told the incredibly enthusiastic man there about the lies told to me at the previous checkpoint. “That’s a shame”, he said, “We were going to give the same description for the next section.” I am not sure whether my heart failed to sink because it could get no lower from where it already was or because its natural buoyancy prevented it from submerging beneath the flood waters currently at nose level. “Sub-24 is almost guaranteed, though”, said the angel of Styx.

On I skated. Not surprisingly, the final 5 miles seemed to go on forever. The many other runners who had paced themselves more sensibly than I had streamed past. I was pleased for them and didn’t care for myself. I just wanted it all to be over now. Eventually I reached something that might be loosely described as firm ground and ran the rest of the way – just to get the bloody thing over with. It was nice when a woman running the other way told me the finish was just around the corner and I’d easily make sub-23. Result!

More than enough said. I hugged Nici (my true motivation for finishing), mugged for the lovely photographer (who shook my hand – what a nice touch!), and reunited with my long-suffering wife who had been waiting an hour in the rain just to drive me all the way back to Brighton. Thanks, Bobbie.

My precious

Happy

 

Happy with tea

 

The mask slips: Not so happy

When I'm sixty-four

 

“I have to go back to the old persons’ home now, you say?”

 

Been there. Done that. Got the tee-shirt

 

One box ticked

Kit Review

I wore the same kit from start to finish. The sole exception was donning a rain jacket when the rain was clearly setting in for an extended visit, I think from about midnight (?).

Given that I couldn’t have run the really claggy sections at the end anyway, the Brooks Cascadia were perfect, as were the Injinji trail socks. Despite the puddles and despite having some very small but noticeable stones in the shoes for much of the race, I did not blister at all and had no swelling. Anyone reading this in preparation for later years’ races can rest assured that in relatively dry weather, nearly all of the first 70 miles at least is firm to pavementy and suitable road shoes would be fine.

My Salomon tights were also perfect, even though I ran more than half the race with a phone in my back pocket. They also never felt sodden and I probably did not need to carry the waterproof trousers I did. Things were getting a little Great Balls and Ring of Fireish in the last 5 miles but readministration of Vaseline would have sorted that out, I think.

My Mizuno top was fine – my nipple plasters stayed in place throughout.

My S-Lab 12 litre backpack was very, very nearly perfect. I could not have fitted all the kit I had with me with anything less, but I could probably have done with less kit (see “waterproof trousers” above and I also did not use my spare shirt or socks, or my shorts or waterproof gloves). The pack was comfortable, did not swing about like so many other people’s packs seemed to, did not chafe my neck like my inov8 pack does, and did not contribute to nausea like packs with belts can do. I really liked having a water bottle on a chest strap, although as I only ate one of them, having a bottle of jelly babies in the other chest strap was literally a waste of space. Given that I am soooo reluctant to take my pack off, anything I can’t reach doesn’t get used unless really needed. For that reason, I might want to have Vaseline more accessible. Having both lights (Black Diamond Icon headtorch and Fenix LD22 S2 handheld - both perfect) in my left side-pocket seemed to risk digging into my back but nothing came of that, despite me not changing things. My Salomon (I think Bonatti) XL raincoat fitted over the backpack but it was snug. Not only did this give me the appearance of having lady bumps (bonus), it may have contributed to the pack digging in at the bottom, causing the chafing on my right lower-back. I need to check this aspect of the pack well before attempting any other 100.

What next?

One event at a time. I plan to attempt the South Downs Way 100 in six weeks. It’s my local.

 

Health

I had about as easy a 100 as it is possible to have. Like I said, no blisters or swelling and also no bruising, dislocation, tears, concussion, serious dehydration, hyponatraemia, etc. Also like I said, I had really very mild chafing around my centre of gravity and slightly more on my lower back. I also had ‘the usual’ DOMS (Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness) but no worse than after a marathon. As the DOMS wore off, a couple of minor niggles I hadn’t noticed before made themselves known but proper rest and recovery should mean they amount to nothing. During the race, cramp threatened a couple of times but never came – very unusual for me (so Coke’s not a problem, as I had considered a possibility). In other words, I got off scot-free.

My biggest fear about attempting another 100 is precisely that I had such an easy ride of it this time. Maybe I should quit when I’m ahead. I fear I may be like a parent of a perfect first child who reels in shock when he confronts the true horror of a normal second child. At the moment, I appear to be an Action Man who conquered a 100-mile ultra. But it’s easy to look like an Action Man when there are no real obstacles to overcome. What if it gets a bit hurty early on in the SDW 100 and I reveal myself to have been a Ken in fancy dress all along?

All that said, I should remember two things. First, finishing urinating was a tiny bit sore towards the end of the race (and bizarrely gave me mild cramp in my left hamstring) and my first post-race wee was a little darker than I would have liked. Second, I did temporarily feel a teensy bit faint and nauseous immediately after the race. I think this means I need to take on board more liquids, especially when it’s hotter and I’m running up and down hills like a Grand Old Duke of York on amphetamines. I don’t think it means any more than that but I have a responsibility to make sure before my next ultra attempt.

Ultrarunning takes all sorts