North Downs Way 50 2022

Race to the Stones 2022

Thames Path 100 - 2021

Thames Path 100 - 2020

Thames Path 100 2019

Thames Path 100 had been a priority race for a while, and I trained hard for it for about 9 months.

My goals were:

- Finish
- Not feel sick for 40% of the race (like usual)
- Finish without having a dodgy knee that stops me walking (like usual)

I set out to run the whole thing with my friend Jonny, since we have run together a lot before and it's always worked well.

The race was really split into five parts for me:

0-40 KM

Ate and drank a lot. Glorious sunshine. At 40km I remarked, "Yeah I reckon we could do that three more times no problem!" Idiot.

Having someone to run with during the early parts of a race makes a huge difference. Most people have pacers from mile 50 onwards, but having someone to chat to until half-way really makes time fly.

40-80 KM

I managed to eat and drink such a vast amount of water that I felt sick. Jonny pointed this out. I stopped doing that. I swiftly felt better.

We reached the half-way point and had a nice big bowl of pasta, which was nice.

80-120 KM

The night section began. My legs felt strong, but I was seriously dropping off the pace. I really didn't fancy running very much. Therefore, we had to heavily modify our "run 15 minutes, walk 5 minutes" strategy to something like "power-walk as much as possible". This turned out to be nearly the same speed as our run-walk strategy, so we continued. There was a huge bloody hill that went on for ages, which I definitely did not expect on the Thames Path, but hey ho.

120-160 KM

Jonny's ankle had started to hurt. We spent 20 minutes at the aid station at Goring just sitting around drinking tea and looking in our drop bags. I hoped to find a sense of urgency in mine. In his, Jonny was hoping for a new foot.

With around 20km to go, the sun came up. I felt low on energy, but my legs felt good, and I was enjoying walking instead of running.

Jonny's foot deteriorated with 15 KM to go. He couldn't really stand up straight, but somehow he managed to power-limp all the way to the finish. It really was an epic show of endurance, pain management, and generally being an impressive and irresponsibly hard bastard.

After a few impossibly long field crossings, he finally started smiling with a few kilometres to go.

Crossing the finish line was superb as always, but for me, the real success had been all morning in which I hadn't been feeling sick, and my knee hadn't been hurting. The real victory was every pain-free step and the ability to eat as many jam wraps as needed to get me to the finish.

The aftermath

After my race finished, events took an unexpected turn.

I have a habit of passing out during or after races, and that's exactly what happened after I got my bags and went to get a cup of tea.

I laid down on the floor and the paramedics came to check up on me. After getting me up onto a chair, I started passing out, and wouldn't stop.

I have a history of epilepsy, and though I haven't had seizures for a number of years, and they weren't sure whether my passings-out were related to epilepsy. When I feel like I'm about to pass out, I start feeling an aura of impending doom, which makes it feel like I'm about to die. It's like panic and sickness and it makes me want to do anything to avoid it. And I was feeling that feeling before passing out.

They started hooking me up to an IV to rehydrate me. Unfortunately I also have a phobia of needles, which sometimes causes me to pass out and/or have a seizure. That was a dodgy mixture.

Due to the multiple passings-out, they decided to cart me off to hospital with blue lights. I was given more IV fluids and some EKG monitoring. Turns out I was just dehydrated, which they found very alarming (though I'd be surprised if anybody who finished a 100 miler wasn't somewhat dehydrated). After two hours of lying in a hospital bed, they gave me the all-clear and I was driven home.

I guess it's just one of those things that happens to me, and I need to be a lot more careful after finishing 100 milers to ensure I don't sit down without warming down properly and starting to eat and drink. That sounds like a good goal for next year's race.

If I can't get better at remaining conscious after finishing races, I'll be left with no (responsible) option but to stop racing hundreds, and focus on shorter things.

SDW100: An ordeal that would not end, and then nearly ended too soon

Here's the video I made about this race. Below is the writeup.

The first 50 miles of the South Downs Way 100 were fairly straightforward. In summary:

• I started off slowly in last position, and then slowed down some more.
• My watch died at mile 2 (I forgot my main watch, and my backup watch battery is apparently crap).
• I ran alone a lot.
• It was very hot.
• I mostly felt fine.

Early in the morning - around mile 10.

Started getting hot - gloves still on.

I met my first of two pacers, Jonny T, at mile 50.

The cutoff at this race is 30 hours. I arrived at mile 50 with 13 hours on the clock. That gave me 17 hours to complete the second 50 miles. "You'll definitely finish," assured the checkpoint volunteers. "Let's get moving," said Jonny. I agreed with Jonny more.

Jonny would accompany me for 20 miles - until mile 70.

Truth be told, I can't really remember much of what happened during this time. Oddly, I do remember details of the animals we saw: a shrew, a frog, lots of beetles. Some bats. And then a pig farm. And then sheep. So many sheep. I started counting them until I nearly fell asleep on my feet.

It got dark at around mile 60, and then it started to get cold and windy. I remember lots of trudging up stony paths lit by a small beam of my head torch for many hours. Time started to lose its meaning and I can't remember if we talked, sang, ate, jogged, or walked.

The winds on the hilltops felt extremely strong. Maybe only 25 miles an hour, but wearing shorts, and travelling at a maximum speed of 3 miles an hour, it felt cold enough.

Jonny's company got me through the largest part of the night in surprisingly good spirits.

I met my second pacer, my brother Marc, at mile 70.

The best selfie available

I was going so slowly by this point that I informed Marc, "Here's how it is: I can no longer run. At all. There will be no more running today."

Marc likes maths. Marc informed me "at this pace, we would be timed out".

Marc then used the power of maths to try and prevent that from happening.

In turn, I tried to use the power of my legs to go a little bit faster than a sedated sloth.

We both had mixed success in our efforts.

I experienced many very low points:

• I felt very sick for about 30 miles, and food didn't appeal at all.
• For three hours in the morning, I was hoping that I would trip on a rock and break my leg, or fall off a cliff. I lamented the fact that England has no wild wolves or bears that could attack me.
• I wanted more than anything just to lie down and rest for a moment. I knew I couldn't because a) I was running out of time, and b) I'd get hypothermia.
• I started falling asleep on my feet before sunrise.
• My legs hurt immensely. Neither knee would bend or straighten, so both downhills and uphills felt impossible.
• The whole endeavour felt completely insurmountable. I was unable to even understand the task that was set; it was just too big to think about.

At sunrise - cows keeping an eye on us. I was too tired to care. I secretly hoped that one would kick me in the head.

Power walking down a hill at sunrise.

In short, it was a really awful night. I don't remember too many specifics, just feelings of absolute despair and self-pity. My head was somewhere else, and it was up to Marc to make sure things happened.

In terms of the positives, I tried hard to keep moving forwards. More than that, I was completely aware that I could not quit. I have always been the type of runner who doesn't quit races without good reason - and feeling bad definitely isn't a good enough reason.

All morning, Marc did smart calculations about the amount of 'buffer' time we needed to maintain in order to reach the finish within 30 hours.

Nice sunrise. Trying to smile.

We reached the penultimate checkpoint with 15 minutes to spare, and then the final checkpoint with 10 minutes to spare.

The final hill up to Jevington was slow, but somehow - and I have absolutely no idea how - I found the energy to power up to the top. I felt like a crisp packet in the wind, being blown by a strong sense of urgency - and faint gusts of stale tailwind.

We got to the top of the hill and we had an amazing view of Eastbourne and the coastline. A volunteer was there, and he pointed out the stadium where the race finishes. I got a little bit emotional because I felt we had finally cracked this bloody race. It was all downhill from here. Only 3 miles! And we had well over an hour to cover it. It seemed impossible not to do it.

I was wrong - it was very possible to not do it.

We began the slow climb down to Eastbourne. Steep, thin, bumpy pathways were cut in the dusty chalk hillside. I tripped over stones, roots, and my own feet. We waded through head-high nettle plantations. Well-meaning supporters stopped us to give directions that were long-winded and inaccurate. I considered calling a taxi.

Then we hit the road in Eastbourne which would take us to the stadium. In my mind, I would be able to walk this section and finish with at least 15 minutes to spare. However, I had no idea of how far we had to go, nor the route to the stadium.

We walked down The Longest Road In The World (TM) which is, unfortunately for me, in Eastbourne, and leads to the stadium where this race finishes.

The longest road in the world goes on for ten thousand miles and includes the four-thousand-mile long Eastbourne General Hospital. Marc suggested we stopped off for some treatment.

We turned left down a footpath that went on forever. The stadium simply would not come into view.

Marc ran ahead to make sure that we were close, because we only had eight minutes left on the clock.

Marc ran off, and I expected to see him again within a minute. But a minute went by, and then two, and then three. He finally reappeared with the news, "It's just round the next corner!"

The guy in last place then came jogging down the path behind me and overtook us, leaving me in last position with five minutes to go.

Into the stadium

We entered the running track with four minutes remaining. The race volunteers saw us and rushed over. "You have to run! You only have four minutes! Come on, run!!!"

Of course, I could not run. So at first I did not. But upon further insistence from the lovely race volunteers, and lots of cowbell, I did my best "run" impersonation, which was a) not really a run at all, and b) slower than merely walking.

"Come on, move it!"

As we rounded the final bend, we had 2 minutes remaining on the clock, and I finally realised we had enough time.

Me and Marc - the clock in the background confirms the stupidity of our finish time

Me: "This is the hardest race of my life"
James Elson: "This is the smelliest runner of my life"

Afterwards, I sat down on a chair, a moment which I now rank as the #1 best of my entire life.

Conclusion

This race was so overwhelming for so many hours. Until I can sort out the tendon problems in my calf muscles and fix the sickness that always arrives, like clockwork, after 100km, then the 100 mile distance is not a great idea for me to attempt.

I will enter the Western States lottery, since the South Downs 100 is a qualifier. But after that, I will think hard about a) finding solutions to my physical issues, or b) sticking to the "shorter" ultras, like 100k and 50 milers.

As I've hinted at throughout this piece, I could not have finished this race without the help of others. Here's a list of some who have helped:

- My partner Leticia. She supports me and my training 365 days a year. Her support and love is vital.
- My mum. She is always on hand to help year-round. Her interest and support is wonderful.
- My daughter. She always wants to train and race with me. She's 3, so she can't! But I had her firmly in the front of my mind all race.
- My brother Marc. Always paces me to a professional standard. So positive and supportive, particularly in the final stages of races!
- My friend Jonny T: Year-round training partner, racing buddy, and great friend. Never short of puns to make me laugh my head off - and take my mind off the pain in my legs. Drives literally hundreds of miles just to come and pace me through the night.
- My friend Jonny Webb. It felt strange not to call him after the race and give him a blow-by-blow account of the race. But his memory was a big factor that made it harder to quit the race during the difficult times. The low times he experienced were mind-bending, and a real lesson to me on how to suffer, and come through the other side still kicking. I think Jonny would have got a kick out of hearing how awful the night section was! He could definitely relate to that.

I'm very lucky to have all these people in my life. And while I wish I could return the favour to these people, I don't wish the suffering of a 100 mile race on any of them - except for Jonny T, who is currently planning a 100 mile race for next year. Hah. Sucker.

One last run with Jonny Webb

A tribute to Jonathan Daniel Adam Webb, the runner
Born 26th November, 1970
Died 25/26th April 2018, age 47

On Sunday 7th of January, Jonny and I went on our last run together. It was a frozen morning, and we met by a slushy puddle on Parkland Walk near Highgate Station, ran up through Highgate Wood, and did a loop of Ally Pally. On our way back towards Highgate Wood, we paused for a moment to take a photo of the London skyline. He stopped for a break. I was getting cold, so we said goodbye, I turned my back, and I trotted off home. This is the photo he took:





In the distance is Canary Wharf, an area which he loved to visit at weekends in the months leading up to his death in April 2018.

Losing a best friend is extremely difficult, obviously. Losing a running friend is just as hard. Every time I put on my training shoes, I wish I was going on a run with him. It's strange that my hobby is now a constant reminder of sadness. I wish we could lace up and go to chat for a couple of hours. When we ran together, the hours would seem like minutes, as they always do when you have great company on a run.

That said, running with Jonny wasn't always easy - mainly because I was frequently out of breath from laughing so much at his stupid jokes. Also, Jonny had issues with OCD, which meant he was constantly stopping to look in his bag. "Stop looking in your fucking bag" was a commonly heard phrase; his laughter at my frustration was equally as common.

Topics of conversation while on runs were no different to conversations anywhere else: we talked absolute rubbish. He would compare himself to roadkill, talk about what ridiculous changes he would make to existing laws so that the maximum number of people were inconvenienced, and we would play the "what if" game, where the "what if" scenarios were as ridiculous as the answers that we gave. The only thing guaranteed was a lot of laughs.

Over the years, we trained on roads, parks, trails, tracks, and raced 10ks and ultras together. I even remember a ridiculous phone call during which we were both on the treadmill - at different gyms - straining, unsuccessfully, to hear what the other person was saying. "I'M ONLY DOING TEN KAY" - "YOU'RE DOING WHAT?" - "DOING TEN KAY" - "YES I'M FINE THANKS, HOW ARE YOU?" - "NO - I SAID... I MEAN, YES I'M FINE" - "YOU'RE WHAT??"

Running roots

The beginning of my running hobby was also with Jonny, around the age of 18.

In around 2003, Jonny and I agreed to run a marathon together - before either of us had any idea what that entailed. We had done a few runs at the gym, and decided we should definitely enter The London Marathon (mainly because we had never heard of any other marathon).

To prepare for the race, we started training hard. We didn't have much idea what to do in terms of actual running - we were unaware of the concept of a training plan - and we forgot some of the smaller details involved, such as figuring out how to actually enter the race ballot by post.

Before we even realised we'd left it too late to enter, we were both well and truly injured.

We limped back to the drawing board.

I resumed my own running journey a couple of years later, and trained more sensibly, climbing up through the distances gradually - starting with a 10k, onto the half marathon, then a few years later trying my hand at a 50k.

Jonny's preferred approach was to thrash himself stupid on the treadmill - during every single workout. He did this for around ten years, and went from a 65 minute 10k runner to a 48 minute 10k runner. It was really satisfying to watch.

That said, when we decided to do a 30 mile ultramarathon together in 2013, it was redolent of our promise 10 years prior when we promised, but failed, to train (and enter) the London Marathon.

However, in 2013, we actually entered the race, and didn't even get too injured beforehand.

His unique approach

Jonny had a unique approach to running. He would run wearing clothing that was a) not made for running in, b) extremely old, and c) inappropriate for conditions.

So when we turned up to the Stort30 in October 2013, he showed up wearing worn out road shoes (it's a muddy trail race), tracksuit bottoms (not exactly ideal for wet conditions), a thick cotton hoodie (guaranteeing he'd be carrying a kilo of sweat around with him all day) and a broken string bag - with the cords held together over his chest with a piece of string.

Jonny's shoes - the right one was held together with an old sock. Seriously. 

He saw absolutely nothing wrong with this, and for him, it was simply the ideal equipment: it was available, cheap, and was what he was used to running in. I'm sure he must have got some funny looks at the start line, but it didn't bother him.

We ran the first 27 miles together. Jonny LOVED to stop for rests while running - especially when racing. It was the best bit for him. He'd get into the aid station, take off his shoes, get a few handfuls of food, lie down, and slowly eat it. Once he was good and ready, he'd get up again, shoes on, and we'd slowly crack on. We did that at all five aid stations.

With three miles to go, I pulled away and finished before him - while he was reduced to a hobble. After I finished, I hung around waiting for him. Half an hour passed, and he still wasn't appearing. As the minutes passed, I was worried about the rapidly approaching cut-off time of 7 hours. But sure enough, eight full minutes before the cut-off, Jonny limped into view.

He finished in 6 hours 51 minutes and 53 seconds. It was a glorious moment.

I remember running the final 500 metres with him - he was so proud, and when he got his medal from Lindley, he was grinning from ear to ear.

This was quickly followed by lying down on the clubhouse floor for around an hour as I plied him with coca-cola and sugary tea. To this day, I have never seen someone look so ill after a race. We laughed about that for years.

Jonny in his chosen running gear at Stort30 

Jonny’s journey

Ever since Jonny took up running in his late 20s, his preferred method of training was the treadmill. That's the way it remained for the next 20 years.

He had two main workouts: "old system" and "new system". Try as he did to explain each one to me, I did not understand what he did in each, let alone the difference. It involved running at 10.1km/h, and then increasing it gradually in some way, and then pausing or reducing the speed... or something. I'm sure Jonny knew there was no training science behind each workout, he just liked to do the same thing each time and feel the metronomic pleasure of doing the same thing that feels good every time.

Jonny had quite the obsession with personal-best (PB) times for short distances. He loved hammering it on the treadmill until he was absolutely spent, and coming away with a new 'record time' for various set distances. He would always attempt PBs at the most unexpected moment, and it would always be on the treadmill. I lost count of the number of times that he left me voice messages saying "It's on!!" in an out-of-breath voice, referring to the fact that a new PB was, apparently, imminent.

He would always attempt PBs unexpectedly, usually after promising himself that he definitely would NOT be attempting a PB due to the fact that he was tired, and it was DEFINITELY only a relaxed, slow run.

His times were actually remarkable. Even as late as one month before he passed, he was still attempting, and achieving, impressive new PB times. His final PBs are as follows:

• 1 km: 3:42 (24 March 2018)
• 5 km: 22:09 (12 January 2018)
• 10 km: 47:27 (24 January 2018)
• 30 miles: 06:51:53 (27 October 2013)

Considering that Jonny passed away on April 26th 2018, the dates above demonstrate just how fit and well he was so soon before his death.

The darker times

Jonny suffered on and off from depression and addiction for many years. Even when he was going through a tough time, he would always ask how my training was going and want to know about plans and my strategies, in detail, for upcoming races.

The last race I ran when Jonny was alive was the North Downs Way 100, my first successful 100-mile race. He made me feel like a superhero when he talked about my achievement. He asked endless questions about the strategy, the mindset, and why I chose to run the 100-mile distance.

In one of our final phone conversations, I compared my desire to run 100-mile races to his desire to get hit in the face (he was a former amateur boxer), which he finally understood. The strength it takes to run 100 miles is nothing compared to his ability to have faced his depression for so many years.

It was this that I had in mind when I ran the North Downs Way 50 in May of 2018. Things got unexpectedly tough at kilometre 30 of 80. I started to think to myself, "Oh, it wouldn't be that bad if I dropped out just this once..."

But then the thought of what Jonny went through for so many years, and the way he always got through it, instantly inspired me to carry on. My discomfort seemed to evaporate each time I compared it to the things that he endured.

What is left?

I still have several wonderful running friends: my brother Marc, Jonny T (different Jonny), and Ben. Plus former running buddies Tony and Adam.

Marc and Jonny T will both help pace me at South Downs Way 100 this week.

Jonny had been asking me a lot of questions before he died about my upcoming races - the next big one was the South Downs. Predicting the outcome, I impersonated a politician by telling him, "I think I'll probably finish it. Maybe."

I never promised Jonny I’d finish this race. I won't aim to finish it "for" him. I may not even finish at all. But Jonny showed me that running 100 miles is nothing compared to addiction and depression. So when the times get tough on the South Downs, I’ll draw what I can from his memory, and run a few miles with him.

It's hard trying to find meaning in death. In the end, his death was merely a tragic accident. It was only his life that gave meaning.

I still don't understand what it means now that Jonny is no longer around; but I think that running might help me to figure it out.

Thanks for the great runs, Jonny. As always, I'll let you know how I get on.

Many times I’ve walked alone here,
Carried with the breeze.
And many more have walked beside me;
Carried with the breeze

- Upton Heath, Big Big Train

Us, 2010