I probably should have pulled out of the North Downs Way 100 due to illness, and the only reason I decided to start it was that I had been wondering for months how far I could go. I also desperately wanted a ticket into the Western States lottery. So I went against my better judgement, and turned up at the start line excited - if slightly dehydrated from being ill.
I hadn't really eaten properly in five days, but I figured if I got going then hunger would kick in soon enough when I got going. It didn't.
Even so, I tried eating the food at aid stations which appealed the most to me. Nothing really appealed; the table may as well have been covered with colourful paper weights. Regardless, I tried to eat nuts and fruit which usually works for me. Everything tasted like paperweights, so I tried to slow down to give my appetite a chance to kick in.
Near the start I met a guy called Peter. He was nice. He is experienced. So I ran at his pace until mile 25. Unfortunately neither of us would end up finishing.
The sun started to get to me at about mile 20. I could feel my forehead getting sunburnt, and I was sweating a lot. My t-shirt was dripping with sweat like I'd just put it under the tap.
On my way down to Box Hill check point at mile 25, I opened a metal gate too enthusiastically, and as I passed through, it hit a big stone and swung back into the immovable object that is my sunburnt forehead. I nearly fell over from the force of the impact, but managed to wobble down to Box Hill where a marshal assured me that my sunburn hadn't been ruined by blood, and there was just a lump.
---
I ran the next 25 miles with a nice lady called Caroline. She knew the names of all plants and trees that we passed... in Latin. The Ash Tree is called Fraxinus excelsior. "'Excelsior' means tall," she said.
Neither I or Caroline would finish the race.
My stomach sloshed and gurgled. Food wasn't going down. I had also eaten and drunk too much salt, and I felt dizzy and my hands were swollen. I drank as much water as I could to dilute the sodium in my body. I felt a little better.
I came across a poor chap who was receiving treatment from medics after he had passed out while going down some wooden steps. He'd hit his head quite badly, and had to be extracted by a team of six ambulance crew. I went down stairs more slowly after seeing that.
---
I found some very ill looking people at the "half way" point at Knockholt Pound. I was one of them. I was very happy to find my home made burritos in my drop back. Taking a bite into one, I was distraught to find that they'd all gone off in the heat of the day.
I tried to distract myself from the woes of my sick stomach by posing for some glorious action photos with Marc, my pacer.
I also met my mum, my partner and our baby daughter at Knockholt Pound. It gave me a huge lift.
We trotted off down the road towards Sevenoaks, each step the furthest I had ever run. We were an hour from the cutoff, which I felt was something I could maintain.
I was still able to jog at this point, and Marc was the perfect pacer for getting me moving. He motivated me to walk quickly up hills (well, relatively) - and he got me jogging the flats and moving efficiently down paths. He has never run more than a half marathon himself, and has rarely done any trail running; but there he was, navigating the NDW signs, moving across difficult terrain - all in the dark - while keeping me in good spirits.
The sun set as we cursed our way up the big hill near Otford. At first, the dark was exciting, and I knew the route very well. We helped a magical bearded man called Torquil who was uncertain of the route. Despite his resemblance to Rob Krar, neither of us would end up finishing.
As the miles went by slowly, my stomach wasn't behaving at all. The thought of any food was disgusting - especially sweet stuff. As a result, my energy levels were swinging up and down every five minutes. I was getting very hot - then cold - then hot again. I felt sad, then happy, then sad, over and over again as each minute crawled by.
Voluntarily dropping from the race wasn't an option for me. I find mantras to be very effective for me, so every couple of minutes I found myself muttering, "Keep moving until the cutoff gets you." Other mantras that I had to repeat ad nauseam:
- "If this was easy, it wouldn't be worthwhile."
- "You signed up for this. This is what you love to do."
- "Finishing gets you a ticket into Western States lottery."
- "If you don't finish today, you'll just have to come back and start from scratch which is harder."
We came across Dan Park and his pacer, and for about half an hour the four of us ran together in the dark. "Just think about getting home to your kids tomorrow lunch time with a big buckle," his pacer said to him. I stole the mantra and used it later. Neither Dan or I would end up finishing.
At every aid station, the time until the cutoff was getting smaller and smaller. I thought if I could get over my stomach problems and get some energy into my system, there was a small chance that I could just hold off the cutoff long enough to get to the end.
It was only by sheer determination that I was moving forwards at all. My only weapon for the day was a stubborn refusal to stop moving as long as my legs would allow. Even though it hurt, I tried not to make any excuses.
At mile 70, I parted ways with Marc and met my second and final pacer of the day - Tony. He'd been waiting in the car park at Ranscombe Farm Reserve for hours, and must have been bored to tears. I felt so guilty.
Tony was with his girlfriend and her dad, and they had been in the car park for so long that they'd even attracted the attention of the local police. "We're not dogging," they assured the policeman, who just seemed more confused after they told him they were waiting for runners.
By this time, I could no longer ignore the awful pain that had been building behind my left knee. Tony and I set off and crossed the Medway Bridge at a slow walking pace, and the wind chilled me to the bone. I hadn't eaten for the past five miles, and my blood pressure was getting low. I felt dizzy, and was stumbling. Tony later told me I was slurring my words at this point, and that I kept laughing at nothing - though I don't remember laughing at all.
After the Medway Bridge crossing, I started to have huge problems coming to terms with the task that lay before me. I knew I still had a marathon to go, and the four kilometre climb up Bluebell Hill ahead of me seemed like an insurmountable challenge. I just couldn't wrap my head around it. I knew I couldn't DNF; but the alternative seemed impossible.
I was so dizzy that I lay down on a grass verge near a railway bridge to get some blood to my head. I drank some water as I lay there, trying to acknowledge the other runners as they passed me and gave me their condolences for my obviously awful state. However, like me, none of them would end up finishing.
I was still about half an hour ahead of the cutoff. It was enough to carry on. Maybe not enough to get past Detling check point at mile 82, but enough to get in and out of Bluebell Hill.
On one hand I was being rational about check point timings, but I became aware that I needed to think about my safety as well. I suddenly started to become cold. Mild hypothermia was beginning to set in; my teeth began to chatter, and my whole body was shaking uncontrollably. I realised that I was on the brink of doing something very stupid, and now was the time to avoid becoming a medical-rescue statistic. I decided I had to drop from the race. It wasn't fair on anybody to carry on up Bluebell Hill. The cutoff didn't matter any more.
However, dropping out from the race isn't just something you decide; you also have to figure out how to safely get to a check point to drop from. I couldn't make the journey on foot without putting myself (and my pacer) at severe risk, so we had to go back down to the road to find someone to give us a lift to the next check point.
Luckily we found a man in a car; not a local dogger, but someone who had been crewing for a guy called Geoffrey, and he was just about to leave to get to the Bluebell Hill checkpoint. Tony helped me into the car, and I quickly dozed off.
---
I waited at Bluebell Hill checkpoint to be picked up by the DNF bus. They wrapped me in a blankets and propped me up in a chair by a heater. In between snoozes, I watched the sun rise over the Kent hills. The melodramatic words of Legolas entered my head, "a red sky rises... blood has been spilt this night." Well, it had. Sort of.
DNF: Handing over my race number
---
The DNF bus took the drop-outs to the finish line. It was strange going from a cold, dark world of suffering where everybody was failing to finish - suddenly to a bright world full of warmth, energy, burgers, and victory. Buckles were everywhere, and people were buzzing as they wolfed down bacon sarnies. I saw friend Ilsuk who'd had a cracking sub-24 race. Rodrigo Freeman was having a happy grand-slam snooze on the floor. Sam Robson was merrily drinking a cup of tea. Winner Ed Catmur walked around serenely in his pants. Unlike me, thankfully, they had all finished.
I thawed out and had a sleep, consoled by the thankful fact that at least I wouldn't have to run Western States any time soon.
---
So much went wrong with this race, and it might seem like I had the worst day of my life. But the feeling of accomplishment I have of completing around 73 miles is making the pain of my legs today well worthwhile. I've never had to dig so deep for so long in a race - and there are only a couple of things I can think of in my entire life when I've had to try to overcome such adversity.
I won't be back to NDW100 next year, but I hope to try the 100 mile distance again one day.
---
Thank yous:
As any runner knows, participation in an ultra can be a very selfish endeavour - especially for a novice like me. Without the generous help from my team of crew and pacers, I wouldn't have achieved as much as I did. Thanks to Amy and her dad for driving throughout the night (from about 8pm through to 8am with barely an hour's sleep). Thanks to my mum, partner and daughter for crewing me between mile 50 and 70 until past midnight. I owe everything to my partner who puts up with my running year round. Huge thanks go to Marc who got me through 20 miles - the furthest he's ever run. Tony only ended up travelling about 4 or 5 miles with me - which we walked purely on tarmac. Yet his tireless patience and encouragement kept me focused on moving forward for those miles, and staying awake to look after me in the morning hours was vital to my safety.
Thank you all! I promise I won't ask you all to do it again.
(Any time soon.)
No comments:
Post a Comment