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.