Athletic achievement is relative. Let's be honest, an able bodied human running a 6 hour marathon is little cause for applause. He who completes a sub-20 5km run, it could be argued, is more the athlete than the sub-4 marathon man. Requiring the full 17 hours to finish an Ironman? Hmm. Of course it is all relative. 

 

That's the real draw of the 100 miler. To finish is to conquer. Not anyone can just turn up and achieve that, regardless of the cut-off allowance. With a couple of 100km races under my belt and an Ironman under my tri-belt, in late September 2014 I registered for my first 100 miler.

Winchester to Eastbourne - 100 miles (as the crow might fly)

For a number of years, whilst taking on 50-100km events, I'd been passively involved (more an avid spectator) in the ultra-running community and had become well read on what others were achieving at the upper echelons of the sport. From multi-day ultra-marathons, 24 hour...hell, even 72 hour and beyond continual pursuits, to the crossing of deserts (more Badwater than MDS), mountain ranges and even continents, completing a hundred miles simply seemed the entry level model to the brand. So when I hit 'apply' it wasn't with dread, but delight.

 

Those that know me, know I love a buffet. What could be better, a sausage roll here, a twiglet there, slice of pizza, triangle sandwich, a little pick-and-mix. I was well aware that the aid stations would be 'well stocked' but I wasn't expected mid-budget wedding 'well stocked'. The sheer variety of foodstuffs at that first checkpoint was a logistical wonder. I truly believe my finish time suffered as a result of those checkpoints. At times I had to force myself to get going again.

I'd spent a great deal of time studying the route and familiarising where and when the checkpoints would fall throughout the day. For some peculiar reason I was of the opinion that the next checkpoint was at 15 miles, so felt no need to ration my drinks for what would be less than an hour's running. I certainly don't look for conversation when racing (or at any time in fact) but I'll always passionately return small-talk when pressed. With the field still tight-knit, I got chatting to a guy about the day ahead and our goals and strategies seemed to marry. He was quite certain that we had a good half-marathon until the next stop, and as I sifted my brain I happened to concur. Drat, was I losing my marbles so early on? I apologised for the ill-advice and confusion and put my 'boobs' away to suckle more frugally. Head down.

Up and down, down and up, even up and up, and some down and down, covering such incredible mileage along a route of similar flora and fauna (basically sheep and cows) the particulars of the race are hard to recall. What wasn't particularly hard to recall was the gargantuan downhill leading us into checkpoint 2 across the A3 to the QECP. The problem with downhills is that you are lured into thinking 'wahoo free-speed' but resist temptation my friend. Thunderous impact on the quads may lead to 'game over' later down the line. I have tremendous discipline on the downhill choosing to pitter-patter like a puppy, always conscious of slipping or taking a fall. 

Turning into the QECP car park, nigh on a quarter of the way in, I broke into a manly stride just before my bag-lady girlfriend caught sight of her runner.

CP 2: QECP 22.6m - CP 3: Harting Downs 27.2m

I'm terribly biased of course, but my girlfriend is an incredible crew. Her level of organisation and time-keeping is simply wondrous. Not once have I ever ran through a stop to find her late or ill-prepared. It is such devotion that makes me terribly guilty when breezing through checkpoints hurriedly and egoistic. A typical conversation might go like this:

Girlfriend: "Hey, you're doing well. How do you feel?"
Me: "Yeah-yeah, fine"
Girlfriend: "Give me your bottles, I'll go fill them up"
Me: "Cheers" 
Girlfriend: "What do you need food-wise?"
Me: "Nothing, I'm good"
Girlfriend: "Ok, let me wipe your face"
Me: "Urgh, get off"
Girlfriend: "I've seen twelve bunnies already!"
Me: "Concentrate when you're driving please. Ok, I'll see you in two hours, can you bring the pasta out with you please"
Girlfriend: "Will do, keep focused"

In reality it's a little less 1950's husband than that, it's all said with love. But that's the gist of being the support. After waiting around for a couple of hours, you get a brief conversation, possibly a sweaty kiss and then it's back to the car for the next postcode armed with a handful of rubbish to throw away. As the race grows older, you are met with mood swings and tantrums and soiled clothing to bag-up. It's not for everyone. Hence the bag-drop and the lone-married runner.

Not only is fueling more a 'during' than 'before' concern, but so too 'une visite a la salle de bain'. All that downhill had well and truly cemented things internally. As I came into QECP I was told that I had in fact passed the facilities. Not wishing to make backwards progress (in running terms at least) I chose to press on and take the risk, hoping I had another checkpoint or poo...sorry two in me. Worse case scenario, I had that map to hand.

Pressing ahead, taking the risk

Gee whiz strawberry fizz, there was a lung-busting ascent from the checkpoint exit that forced us to walk but hurriedly so. From hereon whilst there were just shy of 80 miles left to cover, the shorter distances between checkpoints were easier to swallow and meant we were never much more than an hour away from support. After the climb, the remainder of the section was relatively flat, indeed the flattest it got. Continuing apace, the first marathon clocked up. One down, three more to go!

CP 3: Harting Downs 27.2m - CP 4: Cocking 35.1m

Worryingly, since around 20 miles in my hamstrings had become incredibly tight. Unsurprising though it may seem, given the amount of ascent, I couldn't help but extrapolate the current discomfort across the remainder of the race. If I were feeling this bad now, then surely in another x hours/miles I'd be walking like a constipated penguin? Would my hamstring be my achilles heel? It played on my mind throughout the first half of the race, alongside the mental torment of 'miles to go' and later 'hours until I can sleep'.

What did take my mind off things though was the fact that I was now running toward 'Cocking'. I'll sadly never be too old to find such a place name hilarious. 

Now over a third of the distance covered, though not quite constituting a third of the time that would elapse, I ran in to Cocking...chuckle chuckle...across the most wondrous grass, lined by an orderly fleet of support vehicles. Up ahead I spied my superstar support, noticing that she'd chosen against reverse parking but so far so good, the country roads and questionable postcodes had not yet phased her. I updated her on the hamstrings and general tales of 'woe is me' which fell on deaf ears, not the compassion I was seeking but the right sentiment none-the-less to keep me on course.

Coming in to Cocking

Beneath the aid station marquee (ever wondered for organising a simply remarkable event.

CP 4: Cocking 35.1m - CP 5: Bignor Hill 41.7m

Leaving the checkpoint for Bignor Hill, there ahead of me was a portaloo in all its matte blue glory, I could not have been happier. I found it odd that a rest stop would only have the lone facility, as I cursed, willing the red indicator latch to turn green. Jeez, what's going on in there I thought. As I summoned the courage to give an 'all ok?' knock on the door, the door opened to show a bloody non-runner, casual with a 'ten minutes, and what?' attitude. Anyway, lost minutes, but worth the wait. You are what you eat, never more true. Eight energy gels.

Now post noon, my automated "good morning" exchanges were being corrected to "afternoon". The trail was full of life with ramblers, bikers, picnickers and a plethora of other 'ers' groups. It really is a wonder that we (myself included) choose to spend our downtime in shopping malls and city streets when such beauty is oh so near. The nature of the South Downs Way is such that you find yourself atop a hill often and the views are breathtaking. England may not have the drama of towering mountain ranges or raging rivers, but on a clear day there is a special beauty to her green and pleasant land. At times I would have loved to have taken a few moments respite to absorb the views around, but constant forward progress was the order of the day, and time was a-ticking. 

Much of the running was up high after a sharp rise from Cocking. The 360° vistas did act as a mood enhancer though most of the time was spent looking downwards for foot placement such were the diabolical flint strewn pathways - ouch and ouch. The highest checkpoint of the day, with an incredible view ahead with the halfway point just over the horizon.

CP 5: Bignor Hill 41.7m - CP 6: Kithurst Hill 50.1m

The fact that the section started on a hill and finished on another, suggests it was a toughie. In fact there was around 1,000 feet incline and decline over the eight miles. This combined with the fatigue of running so far already, with more ahead, would explain my drop in mood and the usual thoughts of "why the hell am I doing this?". You can tell yourself all you want pre-race about how you’ll react when times get tough, but when you are in discomfort with half a day of running left to see through, it’s another story. I always feel a great deal of guilt when I reach this stage, as I bemoan my circumstances of which are voluntary in their undertaking. My (poor) girlfriend was the recipient for much of this ranting as I met her at a crew stop around mile 47. “Next time I talk about running GUCR or Spartathlon (150 mile races) please remind me of this moment and just how whingy and uncomfortable I was not even 50 miles in” I pleaded. I also tried to bookmark that feeling there and then to later return to, should I ever enter such a race. Problem is the pain is all too quickly forgotten, much like the experience of giving birth (so I've been told).

Sulky sulky-son

CP 6: Kithurst Hill 50.1m - CP 7: Washington 54.0m

Passing the halfway point felt good, now that I was nearer the finish line than the start. In terms of race time though I was still well in the first half given the inevitable slowdown to come. From Kithurst Hill it was a welcomed short descent into Washington. Turning off the South Downs Way into the village of Washington I was welcomed in by none other than Elvis Presley himself feeling ‘all shook up’. The village hall was the first major stop promising hot food and the first of two bag-drops for those to change gear and grab supplies.

CP 7: Washington 54.0m - CP 8: Botolphs 61.2m

Back out onto the SDW the run to Botolphs consisted of a level climb before descending to sea level for checkpoint 8 on the cusp of 100km. Now late afternoon, my clothing far from fresh, I met my girlfriend en route for a change of top and a caught off-guard wet wipe to the face (urgh get off). Boy, tan lines like you wouldn’t believe! I’d later discover the hilarious consequences of wearing gloves throughout.

CP 8: Botolphs 61.2m - CP 9: Saddlescombe Farm 66.6m

Much of the route to Saddlescombe Farm was familiar to me having ran the exact section of the SDW back in May at the 3 Forts Marathon. Back then the weather had been atrocious and the fog had impaired the surrounding views. This time around with clear skies in the early evening, it was evident what I’d missed out on first time around. This familiarity was particularly comforting, knowing what lay up ahead was reassuring. I fantasised about the seemingly incredible pace I had in my legs that day and how I’d raced up those hills instead of the shuffling I was now limited to. That said, I was experiencing a second wind after some tough times, and my mental state was more buoyant.
Not far from leaving Botolphs I hit the 100km mark, in 11:58. Not bad. I could have and should have run faster at L2B three weeks prior I thought to myself. Each step from this point would be further than I’d ever run before. There were a lot of steps left.

A little cloud, a little sun, perfect weather for a run

Girlfriend and bump having a well earned rest

CP 9: Saddlescombe Farm 66.6m - CP 10: Clayton Windmills 69.8m

I ran into checkpoint 9 with my spirits up, two-thirds (shy of 0.06 recurring) of the race down. Such was the energy of the ladies ‘manning’ the stop, that even if my spirits had been down, they would have been up by the time I left. One of the things I absolutely adore about running is the community that supports it through volunteering. I spent way too much time there, but it was worth it. The shortest section of the race followed and it was nice to simply carve out a few miles to more food.

CP 10: Clayton Windmills 69.8m - CP 11: Housedean Farm 76.6m

Running the best part of seven miles at this stage of the race was not particularly swift. There was a crew stop midway to break up the time, where I changed once again, into my night gear to get day-glowy and dry before the cover of darkness. Leaving my girlfriend after the assistance, I sat down to remove a stone from my shoe, a rather trivial matter. Oh the frustration. After lacing up for a third time I was finally on my way, turning the air blue with the realisation that my brain was now struggling to focus on minor tasks.
Running down a steep descent, slipping into darkness, I reached Housedean Farm and it was time for the head torch!

CP 11: Housedean Farm 76.6m - CP 12: Southease 84.0m

The beauty of running 100 of anything, is that it can all so easily be converted to percentage. Therefore as I pulled into Housedean Farm I was 76.6% of my way through the race. How terribly dull, allow me I'm an accountant. The majority of the time I'm running, particularly when racing, my mind is consumed by one of two things: foot placement and calculation. Which path to take, grass verge over rubble ridden road, and how's my pace, expected time to next checkpoint or more eagerly - finish time. It's probably the reason I go through stages of boredom (like you're having now!) such is the repetitiveness of it all. A quick percentage to fraction translation would have it that there was now less than a quarter to go of the 100 miles, but with a weary body and tired mind the best part of six hours lay ahead.

The checkpoint was manned by folk from Petzl - the title sponsor - so they were suitably impressed when I asked for assistance getting to my Tikka R+ headtorch to head out into the night. Now far into the race, the field was spread out and at the aid stations one would find a crumpled runner or two looking worse for wear. The run to Southease being a little over seven miles, at this stage was an effort, so before I left I ensured my belly was full and took on some s-caps washed down with lukewarm coffee, yum. Out on my own, with no runners in sight I plowed on up high for what would be the last of the light. As I viewed the setting sun I thought of how if it weren't for the running I'd never find myself out in the country enjoying these moments. High on life (and caffeine) I soon came down as I approached a stile swarmed by sheep. It's remarkable just how intimidated one can be by docile farmyard animals when alone. I survived, clearly, but not without some shooing and 'back to the fence' sidestep. A woolly moment.

As an East Londoner, under the cover of night fall one rarely experiences true darkness such are the illuminations of the city. Out in the country, when that current bun sets it adds a whole new dynamic to running. Feelings of solitude, refreshingly so at times, can make the tough times tougher or add a sense of calm and focus if spirits are high. I was relatively upbeat as I ran alone, the novelty and adventure of wearing a headtorch was enough. With a not so colossal distance awaiting me at the next checkpoint, I ran in to Southease in a fairly good place mentally. This would all change though on the other side.