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

Slow performance at the Freddie Mercury Music Legends Marathon, Feb 2018

Race: Freddie Mercury Music Legends Marathon
Company: Saxons, Vikings & Normans Marathons
Date: 11/02/2018
Distance: Marathon
Format: Five loops on Gravesend Cyclopath cycle path
Goal time: 3hr 30m
Finish time: 3hr 52m

In preparation for the coming summer's two ultras (North Downs Way 50 in May / South Downs Way 100 in June) I ran a 'tune up' marathon in February 2018. I was aiming for a 3hr 30m finish time. It was supposed to be a fast marathon on a nice, easy flat course.

It was on a gloomy and blustery day in Gravesend. It was cold. It was on a looped course on a stoney bike path. The wind was pretty ferocious. The course was far too hilly. I should have started off slower than I did. In the end, I just wasn't strong enough to keep hitting 5 minute per kilometre pace.

This chart shows my average pace dropping off all the way to 30k - after which point it pretty much nose dives:

My main problems were:

• "Hitting the wall" at 30k. Basically, I didn't eat enough and lost all energy and wanted to quit.
• Left foot going numb with pain due to stones getting stuck in the soles of my shoes.
• Achey legs all over. Groin, calves, quads - all of them seemed to go at around the same time. I think I need to target my main leg muscles in the gym with strength work.
• Hands went numb. I have Raynaud's phenomenon, which makes racing difficult for me at the best of times. During this race, I was sweating all over my body, and despite wearing two pairs of heavy duty snow gloves, my hands still went numb. It was an intense pain in both hands for the whole race.
• The wind was blowing uphill. That was helpful on the uphills (excluding the fact that the uphills are... uphill), but on the downhills it made it feel like going uphill.

But in reality, I bloody love a good moan, so this race was great for that.

Onto the good things about the day:

• I lasted 30k at a really good (for me) pace. 5 minute kilometre pace for me feels really quick, and I held on to it for ages. A few years ago, that sort of pace would be unthinkable even for a 5k. It's nice to have years of training pay off - even if the race didn't go perfectly.
• I absolutely love races put on by SVN. Traviss the RD is a terrific guy and puts so much work into his hundreds of races per year. He has impeccable taste in cold-weather gowns, and impeccable taste in music legends:
• The race was Freddie Mercury themed. I am a huge Queen fan, so that was something to look forward to. In reality, the 'Freddie Mercury' theme extended as far as one guy dressed as Freddie/Flash Gordon, and the medal at the end which had Freddie's name on the strap. The weather was too cold to permit much more dressing up than this. Never mind, I put on some Queen on the car journey home.
• I finished seventh overall in the marathon! Results here. That's the closest to the front of any race I've ever been. (It's also the smallest marathon I've done, and the only one where everyone behind me seemed to be walking!)
• The race eventually finished and I could go home and warm up. That was really the best part of the day, in hindsight.

Videos:

Here's a video of the start:

Coming into the aid station after my second lap. I was still feeling good at this stage. That was about to change.

Run around Mount Longonot

In December 2017 I ran up and around Mount Longonot, a cool volcano in Kenya near Nairobi.

I did a little video of it. Here it is.

NDW100: This time a bit further

Scene: A crap runner at NDW100

When: Two years ago - August 2015

Where: In a dark field, far, far away.

Scene: The crap runner lies down in a hedge and proceeds to get mild hypothermia.

Runner tells his pacer: "I will withdraw from this race. But I will come back stronger. I will train hard, and I will return." [Pacer turns to stare wistfully off into the distance.]

Cue determined Rocky-style training montage that lasts for exactly two years.

Scene: It is two years later. Runner says to nobody in particular: "Wow, that was really hard. But I am fitter now. I can also use italics inappropriately in blog posts. Hooray."

This is what led me to NDW100 in 2017. I was nervous because I knew how much it could hurt, but excited to test my new level of fitness against the same course that completely destroyed me.

At the start line of NDW100

The first half (KM 0 - 80)

I've done the first 50 miles of this course a few times, so it felt like I was just waiting for mile 51 to come around so the 'real' race could start. That said, here's a summary of the great or weird things from the first 50 miles:

The first thing of note happened when I was overtaken by a competing runner at KM10 who was smoking a cigarette. That was a first - at any distance.

At KM20 I met another runner called Ollie who is in the army. He recounted various army training exercises he'd done recently, from early morning press ups in the sea at the beach, to week-long full-day hikes with 60KG of gear. I passed time learning new army slang ('nailed' is means 'tough', and 'kit pig' is someone who can't organise their kit efficiently). I was sad to see that he didn't end up finishing the race. Presumably not due to lack of training - or lack of kit organisation.

Only on ultras can you chat to a stranger for a few hours and become best mates

On the note of strangers, Ollie and I came across a man (not in the race) who was sat at the top of a hill in a puddle. He had the facial expression of  Humpty Dumpty, and seemed to be in quite some pain. Ollie had some basic medical training, and asked him if he was okay. He said "No... the army is controlling my spine... with radio waves". This seemed weird,  as Ollie did not seem to have a remote control in his hand, but who knows what clever kit he had in that huge organised army bag of his.

Smiling - still feeling good early on

From Box Hill (KM40), the day started to get really warm. I dumped a few litres of water over my head. The weather gods must have noticed, so they sent two huge thunder storms to dump water all over the rest of me in an attempt to freeze me to death. I spent the next few torrential hours trying to keep warm and dry. In ultras, sometimes all you can do is try.

Just after it started to chuck it down

I only learnt at that morning that my coach Lindley Chambers and his partner Maxine Lock would follow me around the course to give me supplies and support. It was an amazingly kind thing to do.

That said, Lindley seemed to enjoy having a go at me all day, so who am I to deny him fun. "Get a move on", "stop milking it", "you're not finished yet" were some of his favourite phrases for the day.

Still feeling good

I enjoyed counting down to my arrival at the half way point: Knockholt Pound aid station (mile 50, KM80). It was an interesting experience arriving at Knockholt Pound without feeling completely spent. In fact, I'd go as far as saying I felt pretty good.

How that would soon change.

Kilometres 80-100

I was really pumped to meet my first pacer Jonny. I always have a laugh with Jonny, and between mile 50 and 60 we told shit jokes and made fun of crap cows. I managed the best running of the day between those miles. Not recklessly fast, but certainly banking some time for later, which would turn out to be handy.

We suspected we'd missed a turn at one stage, and Jonny went back to find out where we went wrong. I asked a passing cab driver if he knew if we were on the North Downs Way. He said "your lot come out of that field over there, mate". I waited for Jonny to return, and we went back to continue running with 'our lot'.

The miles went quickly in the remaining daylight. Before I knew it, the sun had gone down and I was saying bye to Jonny and hello to Lindley.

Kilometres 100-130

Lindley turned out to be exactly the sort of pacer I needed in the night section. He kept me focused on the task at hand and made sure I stayed on top of eating and drinking so that I didn't end up slowing down or getting ill/cold during the small hours of night.

Heading into the darkness

When the temptation was strong to sit around at checkpoints drinking tea, he reminded me to get a move on; and when I started to get cold, he reminded me about wearing the correct kit. Basically, he looked after me like I was a 2-year-old.

I reached the point where I had last year dropped out of the race alongside my pacer Tony. It was a railway bridge at mile 73 or so, and I stopped before crossing it. "This is where I dropped out last year! Every step is now the furthest I've ever run." Lindley looked back at me as if the only milestone I was about to reach was getting slapped by him for being too melodramatic and wasting time. We waddled up the dark hill instead, quietly breaking records with every footstep - as undramatically as possible.

I got past Holly Hilly checkpoint (mile 75 / 120KM) and the sleep gremlins started to creep in. It was approaching 3AM and I started to get the urge to lie down and sleep. I started seeing some things that I knew weren't there: loads of mice running around in circles, and at one point a baby sat in a puddle. I remember thinking at the time "I would take tiredness over severe pain any day". I would end up having both.

To stave off the sleep demons I put on some music from my phone. I sang to some songs and tried to enjoy myself. Lindley complained of my singing later, but I think he was secretly enjoying it and a little bit jealous of my superior falsetto capabilities - especially during the crescendo sections of several songs by The Feeling.

From mile 70 onwards, my quads started to get quite sore from the constant pounding. Running became quite difficult, and my pace started to drop.

Kilometres 130-140

I reached the final big aid station at Detling (mile 82 / KM130) at some time during the night. I don't really know when - I was too sleepy to check. I'd been having issues with my GPS watch all day; one died early, the next lost GPS signal at some point, and then I paused it by accident.

I was also a couple of hours behind my ideal schedule. That said, I'd managed to build up a nice cushion of time for me to eat into for the rest of the race, so I wasn't at immediate risk of missing the cutoffs at checkpoints. I just needed to keep moving forwards at a brisk walking pace to ensure I finished.

To help me with the task at hand was my highly qualified pacer: my brother Marc.

To work against me was the dreadful hills after Detling aid station. I'd had dreams about those hills in recent weeks, and they turned out to be as much of a nightmare in real life. Plus the ground was all wet from the earlier rain we'd had, so the stairs were slippery. The terrain is either straight up or straight down for 5KM, and there are trees that surround the trail so you feel like you're running through a cave. Compounded with this was the fact that it was still night time, and navigating by headtorch. My headtorch had started to go flat, and I couldn't be arsed to get my spare out, so I plodded along in semi-darkness navigating a tunnel by what felt like candle light.

Marc paced me at last year's race, and got me from mile 50 to 70 - fuelled by encouragement and coke fumes alone. It was pretty much the same formula this year, except I was eating and drinking more this time. Newsflash: It turns out that consuming calories is helpful for running long distances. Who knew?

From Detling onwards, my quads were completely dead, and going up/down hills and stairs was really painful. It wasn't a show-stopper though, and I plugged away slowly. It took us about 2 hours to cover 8 kilometres, a gruellingly slow pace. We were passed by a dozen runners every hour or so, as well as a few passing snails.

It was a major relief when we emerged from the tree-covered section to find ourselves on a lovely hill with a view of dawn breaking. A line of sheep made their way past us serenely in the pink daylight. It didn't help me stay awake, but was very pretty. We trudged down to the town of Hollingbourne (mile 86 / KM 140).

Wooly sunrise

Kilometre 140

Lindley and Maxine were waiting for us at Hollingbourne. Lindley was getting some well-deserved sleep following his pacing duties, and I felt a bit bad when Marc and I came along and woke him up. "Go get it boys" he said. So we did.

The terrain from Hollingbourne to the finish is mostly stony paths. Compared to the rest of the race, people use words like "rolling" and "flat" and "downhill" to describe it. At mile 86 of this particular race, I would have described it as "mostly uphill" and "treacherously rocky underfoot" and "not as advertised".

I had mostly clocked off by this section. I was a zombie, just trying to move forward and not think about how many hours more I had before the finish.

On the other hand, Marc had a lot to keep in mind. He had to continually do time/pace calculations to make sure we weren't getting too slow ("this lap needs to be faster, let's jog until that puddle"). He also had to make sure I wasn't eating/drinking properly to avoid hypoglycaemia  ("Have you eaten anything in the last ten minutes? Go on, have a bit of Clif bar"). He also had to keep my spirits up by talking about fun things and putting on music that we could sing along to.

We met a guy called Chris around this point, and serenaded him with our best rendition of some Tenacious D songs. If Lindley was there, he'd have probably jumped off a ledge. Chris seemed pleased to be part of a determined band of runners (despite the singing), and we tried to pass the time and lift our spirits with uplifting talk of the good things that awaited us at the finish line.

Rocking it with Chris

To be honest though, at this stage my race had completely fallen apart. I don't remember much of what happened from mile 90 onwards. I think there was an aid station at mile 91, but don't remember passing through it. I'm not even sure if we stopped.

I had been seriously struggling to get food down for the past ten miles. Everything was dry in my mouth, and it took me ten minutes to eat one biteful of anything. Nothing appealed. I couldn't even drink coke without feeling sick. My stomach had shut up shop for the day - at mile 98.

Nothing left

At this point I had completely run out of energy. Motivation wasn't even a factor at this point, I didn't need motivation to move forward because a) I was so close to the finish that I could smell it, b) Marc was giving me no choice but to move forward anyway.

But when your muscles run out of energy, there's nothing you can do except fall over. So that's what I did. Marc tried to get me up, but I just lay there with my face in the dirt and cried. "Oh god I hate this stupid fucking race", I remember screaming. "I feel like I'm going to die, I can't feel any worse, there's no way I can finish. Oh god. Call an ambulance. Oh god."

It all just felt so unfair that my stomach had given up five miles from the finish. I remember thinking that if that pesky race director James Elson had just made a 100 mile race that was actually 100 miles, I would be able to at least crawl to the finish on my hands and knees. But the race is 103 miles. God damn him, and god damn this race.

Then everything became quiet and peaceful. I passed out.

I woke up and realised where I was. I wished I could pass out again so I didn't have to face the task at hand. Instead, I threw up on Marc's shoes. "Come on, we need to get you to the finish. We don't have time to stop." He was right. And I wanted to get up so badly - but just couldn't.

Some runners passed us and asked if we were okay. Marc assured them he had the situation under control. He got me into the recovery position and told me to just get myself to the next aid station which was just round the corner. Instead, I threw up again.

For the first time in hours though, I wasn't feeling sick anymore. It was a major relief. That said, the very real problem of hypoglycemia was still present - there was simply no energy in my body to propel me forwards. And I couldn't face the prospect of eating or drinking.

Marc wrapped me in a foil blanket to prevent me getting cold, and managed to get me to my feet and press on shakily towards the checkpoint at mile 98. An aid station volunteer came out to meet us to ask if we were the runners in need of medical assistance. Marc said "No not at all! We were just resting." I said as little as possible, except give him a thumbs up. He must have known I was in a pretty bad way though, as I was walking along with a foil blanket wrapped around me and dirt/puke was plastered to the entire right side of my face.

We passed the aid station and wandered through some corn fields. My stomach was still turning and I couldn't regulate my body temperature anymore. We were moving impossibly slowly, and I wasn't able to predict whether or not I would finish. It all depended on whether I could eat something in the next hour.

Trying to recharge

I lied down again out of necessity, with the additional hope of getting some blood to my vital organs in order to feel better. It worked temporarily, but then I had to lie down half a mile down the trail. At this rate of progress, I would certainly miss the cutoff.

Running on fumes - superman space blanket

I lied down a third time, and got up again. I realised a few minutes later that I'd left my glasses on the grass a few hundred yards back. Marc ran back and got them. While he was gone, I checked my food bag and found some orange segments. I put one in my mouth and it tasted good. I chewed it and swallowed. It went down. And stayed down.

My legs started to move more quickly, and I felt better within seconds. I suddenly felt euphoric. I was eating! Oh christ, at last I was bloody eating. I had another piece of orange, and another, then the whole orange. I realised at that moment that I could finish the race.

After some food

My partner and our daughter called me on the phone at that exact moment and I nearly lost it. I was a complete physical, mental and emotional wreck. "I'm going to the finish line! I'm going to make it", I told my 3 year old daughter. "Well done dad you can do it!"

Marc returned with my glasses, and he admitted to being surprised that I hadn't collapsed on the floor in a pile after he left.

We plodded happily along, doing some quick calculations to make sure we hadn't left too little time. We calculated that I'd finish in 29 hours and 45 minutes - 15 minutes inside the cutoff of 30 hours.

The realisation that I was about to finish the race was completely overwhelming at that point. I was happy, but couldn't really understand how significant the achievement was in the bigger picture. I'd been training hard for two full years, but could only think about sitting down after the finish. As we walked down the road to the Julie Rose stadium in Ashford, I would have probably even shed a tear of happiness - were I not so dehydrated.

We went into the stadium and saw Lindley and Maxine by the track. They waved happily, and Lindley pointed to his watch as if to say "come on, you haven't finished yet".

Felt like a strange dream

I did the slowest jog of all time round the track, and Marc and I saw the clock on the stadium wall. We laughed at the ridiculousness of coming in 15 minutes before the cutoff of a 30 hour race.

It was indeed ridiculous.

And it was finished.

Finally.

Marc, me, Lindley, Maxine. Not pictured: Jonny

Post-script

My quads struggled towards the end, but that was to be expected. Aside from that, my legs were absolutely great all day. In fact, my legs have only taken a couple of days to recover. What let me down was my stomach. It's a difficult thing to emulate in training, but I need to practice getting better at eating on long runs.

I don't know what this finish means for my running. I love the 50 mile distance, and the 100 mile distance was too much for me. I can't fathom doing it regularly, and I'm not sure I'd enjoy it if I was better at it. I wouldn't mind sticking to 50 miles and shorter for a while before deciding whether or not to return to the 100 mile distance.

With a Western States qualifying race under my belt, I'll put my name into the lottery for that. The chances I'll get in are nearly zero, so there's not too much risk of me actually having to do it!

Race stats

Finish time: 29hrs 44m 30s
Cut off: 30 hours
Rank: 145th out of 147 finishers
178 runners started the race (36% drop out rate)
Number of runners that completed the last aid station to the finish slower than me: 1
Strava 1 / Strava 2
Official race report
Official finish results

Thank yous

Thanks go to Lindley Chambers of Challenge Running for the top coaching over the past two years. Were my physical condition not so much better than 2 years ago, I would have definitely dropped out again. Thank you for putting up with me in the night time section, too.

Thanks to Lindley and Maxine for driving around the course to support me. It was an amazingly kind gesture, especially from Maxine who I had never met before that day.

Thanks to Jonny for driving a six hour round trip to pace me for three hours. The promise of mega-bants got me through the first 50 miles with something to look forward to. The time we made between mile 50 and 60 was absolutely vital for later in the race.

Thanks to Marc for pacing me through what is probably the most difficult 20 miles I will ever run. Without him pacing me, I would have definitely dropped out before the finish. You're the perfect pacer. Especially when times are tough!

Thanks to my lovely partner, my daughter, and my mum for encouraging me in my running and helping me find time to train while juggling the rest of life.

North Downs Way - 2017 report

It was my third time back at The North Downs Way 50 in 2017. I was back to get a faster time.

In 2014 I ran 13h 13m, and the following year I shaved off over nearly two hours to finish in 11h 30m. For a year I've been working hard with coach Lindley Chambers of Challenge Running, and my goal for the 2017 race, secretly, was to finish inside the top 50. Looking at results of previous races, I figured that a sub 10 hour time would be needed - maybe even as low as 9.30. My training had been going so well over the past few months that these times seemed possible, if not entirely probable.

The first half of the race ("the fast half") started well enough: I missed the start of the race. To be fair, most runners missed the start too. The walk down from the location of the race registration to the start of the trail is intersected by a railway crossing. The barriers came down right in front of me (and about 70 other runners) and by the time I had gone over the bridge and walked over to the start, everyone had run off. I'd actually had recurring nightmares about this very occurrance for weeks before the race, but I was too preoccupied with trying to covertly lather my groin with bodyglide to let it bother me too much.

The race is underway.

In London, many folks moan about how unfriendly and rude people are. At races, I tend to find the opposite; I get annoyed about how lovely and friendly everyone is. I end up chatting to every Tom Jeff and Jill on the course, and before I know it, I know the names and star signs of all their pets, and my race strategy is half way out the window. The same thing happened this year. I tried to regain composure and I tore myself away from the too-lovely-runners, and tried to muster my terse inner Londoner. Every time someone ran past me, I tutted and elbowed them in the face, which seemed to work.

I was trying to get to the half way point of Box Hill aid station in about four hours. To achieve this, my strategy was:

- Don't be afraid to push a bit too hard or be out of breath. 
- Jog up gentle hills. I've never done that before. It felt naughty.
- Don't mess around at aid stations. Ask aid station peeps to fill up my bottles while I put food into a zip lock bag and then hightail it out of there. At CP1 I even forgot to say "thanks" to the aid station peeps. It made me sad.

Waving to the camera man to make up for my rudeness at CP1.

 At mile 15 or so, I came across Allan Rumbles serving up bacon sarnies from his canal boat to the runners with his friend, both of whom were dressed up as sumo wrestlers. Every year I ask him on Twitter if his so called 'Bacon Boat' has any plans of serving up any veggie friendly sandwiches. 'Facon Ferry', 'Tofurkey Trawler' and 'Veggie Vessel' are alternative names I have even been so kind to suggest, but so far he has held firm in his baconish ways. I even offered to bring my own veggie sausages this year, but he diplomatically replied saying, "No sorry we'll be closed when you arrive." A sardonic sumo, no less.

Trying to look fast.

There was an added complication thrown into the first half of the race: the fact that a completely different race was taking place on the North Downs Way... at the exact same time... in the opposite direction. So for about half an hour, there was complete chaos as two races forced their ways past each other. At one point, I was practically forced off the trail by two oncoming runners who refused to run in single file. At another point, I moved to the side of the trail to allow someone to pass me, but in doing so I tripped on a tree root and went flying down the trail upside down. Luckily the only outcome was two bloody elbows, so I carried on undeterred.

I got to Box Hill ten minutes behind schedule - 4 hours and 10 minutes. The day was hotting up, and I knew that running too slowly was the least of my concerns. I didn't want to provoke the anger of the heatstroke gods, so I took my time at Box Hill aid station and drank my bodyweight in coke. I also tried Tailwind for the first time, and was underwhelmed by the effects - perhaps unfairly so.

Carrying my picnic over the stepping stones.

My strategy for the second half of the race was:

- Hold on for dear life.

When I told Coach Lindley of this strategy, he seemed a little upset that I didn't have more faith in his expertise. "Believe in your training", he urged. So I believed.

At mile 35 I had a huge lift when I saw Lindley who had come out to support. "Looking good Kris!", he said while high fiving me. Buoyed by this, I ran the next few miles probably a bit too hard. Mile 38 is Caterham aid station, and I knew I could take a minute to refuel and rehydrate properly before continuing the last half marathon to the finish. I was still on for a sub 10 hour finish - and maybe 9.30 at a push.

However, it was at this precise point that my race started to fall apart. I took my aid station strategy too seriously and left in such haste that I forgot my two water bottles. Luckily, I realised my mistake just a few minutes after leaving the aid station, so I ran back and picked them up. In all my speedy strategising, I had probably cost myself more time than I had saved at aid stations all day in one silly mistake. The military slogan 'Slow Is Smooth; Smooth Is Fast' came to mind.

A mere two miles later at mile 40, I was too busy cursing my water bottle mistake to fully pay attention to where I was going. While trying to calculate splits in my head, I became aware of the road beneath my feet that had recently been beautifully tarmacked. "Oh, they must have paved this road since the last race!", I cheerfully commented to myself. "Oh, that's a nice view, too! Maybe the view is new, too!"

By now you will have realised, as did I, that I had gone off course. I knew I couldn't be too far off the trail, and I was fairly sure that the trail was to my left up a hill which was covered with dense bushes and trees. Despite the obstructive greenery, I made an attempt to climb the hill (think Barkley Marathons terrain, but more overgrown and with more sharp things) to find the trail. I couldn't get more than about 20 metres before I became so heavily entangled in the hedge that the worry of finding the course became secondary to worry that I'd never detangle myself and that I would have to survive on rations of 300ml tailwind and 2 strawberry flavoured energy gels for the rest of my very short, prickly life.

Alas, I freed myself, drawing a little more blood from my arms in the process. I cursed at myself yet again as I jogged back up the road to find the turning which I had missed. It was only half a kilometre away, and the sign was as plain as could be. "Never mind", I thought, "it could always be worse." And then it was.

At mile 40 my legs decided that they  didn't want to play running anymore, so they stopped. My groin, hip flexors, calf muscles, quads, hamstrings, shins, and foot muscles all cramped up at once. I dropped to the floor and yelled in pain. I became aware of the fact that my little performance was being witnessed by a lady who was supporting runners with her three young children. The youngest came bounding up to me enthusiastically cheering me on while I lay there prone on the ground. Thanks, kiddo. I recovered after a few seconds, and tried to give him a high five, but then I got cramp in my neck, so I just ignored him and carried on. Sorry, kiddo.

A few minutes later, I saw my coach Lindley again. The memory of seeing him a few miles before seemed a long time ago. I was so hopeful back then. I had everything to live for. Now I had forgotten all notions of finishing times, and I was instead just wondering if the NHS covers the cost of helicopter rescues. Would Centurion Running pay for prosthetic legs if mine fell off? Would they chip in for my funeral if I got tangled in another hedge forever?

All exageration aside, I was having a pretty grim time, and wasn't feeling all that terrific. "The wheels have fallen off" I moaned to Lindley. "Put them back on, you look fine, come on, you're doing great!", he replied. I quickly realised that I was having a bit of a silly pitty party, and with Lindley's help I snapped out of it. There was no denying the existence of my cramp, or the fact that sub-10 hours was now off the cards, but I reminded myself that I could still enjoy myself regardless.

Soon after seeing Lindley. Going down the steps shortly after. Photo credit: Jon Lavis.

Just before the final aid station, fellow running buddy (Twitter pal? Ultra chum? Race colleague? I'm not sure what we are) Conrad Wild came bounding up behind me. "My race is over!" I moaned again. "Oh yeah, same here! Mine finished all the way back at Box Hill." Oh. I was a little deflated by this; he out-despaired me in a single sentence. Nevertheless, we briefly shared war stories from our day and hiked together for a few minutes. As people started passing us, Conrad excused himself and left me behind, looking infuriatingly energetic as he half bounded, half sprinted off ahead of me. Again, this filled me with hope. If he was suffering as much as me, maybe I could also pretend to be energetic. I did my best gazelle impression, but settled for a slow jog.

The final aid station came and went without incident; and shortly after, the ten hour mark came and went - equally uneventfully. I half waddled / half jogged towards the finish line with jelly legs and a loose sense of achievement held together with some old string that I found holding together a kissing gate. On the other side of the kissing gate was a horse who tried to give me a french kiss. I politely declined, and before I knew it, I was running up the finishing straight.

Goofy finishing grin. Photo by Lindley.

My final time was 10 hours and 20 minutes. Still 70 minutes quicker than my previous effort, despite a less than perfect race. I'd say there's even wiggle room for another realistic PB attempt next year! All I have to do is not go off course. I missed my 'top 50' ranking goal, too - I finished 102nd. But it was a quick year, and a finish time of nearer 9 hours would have been needed to get top 10, so I can't really complain there either.

Another ultra friend Ilsuk Han was volunteering at the finish line - he patted me on the back and said "You're the poster boy for the race!". I only found out later that Centurion had used my photo from the 2015 race as the social media pic announcing this year's live race tracking:

Please send all sponsorship requests to my agent.

Lindley was there cheering as I crossed the finish line, and as I stopped moving for the first time in ten hours, I realised that I couldn't stand still without falling backwards. Lindley helped me limp across the field and sat me down and fed me thick sugary tea.

Informing family that I am alive

He debriefed me and reminded me it was still a great time. In his Facebook post he proudly stated "Kris (coaching client) NDW50 finished. A little over 10 hours (time TBC) top work mate really well done great result and a new 50mile PB. Roll on NDW100."

Oh, yeah. I nearly forgot. NDW100 in August.

Aw, shit.

Strava link of race