Athletic achievement is relative. Let's be honest, an able bodied human running a 6 hour marathon is little cause for applause. He who completes a sub-20 5km run, it could be argued, is more the athlete than the sub-4 marathon man. Requiring the full 17 hours to finish an Ironman? Hmm. Of course it is all relative.
That's the real draw of the 100 miler. To finish is to conquer. Not anyone can just turn up and achieve that, regardless of the cut-off allowance. With a couple of 100km races under my belt and an Ironman under my tri-belt, in late September 2014 I registered for my first 100 miler.
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| Winchester to Eastbourne - 100 miles (as the crow might fly) |
For a number of years, whilst taking on 50-100km events, I'd been passively involved (more an avid spectator) in the ultra-running community and had become well read on what others were achieving at the upper echelons of the sport. From multi-day ultra-marathons, 24 hour...hell, even 72 hour and beyond continual pursuits, to the crossing of deserts (more Badwater than MDS), mountain ranges and even continents, completing a hundred miles simply seemed the entry level model to the brand. So when I hit 'apply' it wasn't with dread, but delight.
Off the back of some decent performances, including a recent 100km across similar terrain I felt 100% ready for race day. With a 6am start on the Saturday we headed to Winchester the day before to settle, register and ensure as late an alarm call as possible. Oh how we laughed upon pulling into the hotel car park, that running home for a forgotten toothbrush would represent just 70 of the 100 miles I had come here to race. Perspective.
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| Ultra-marathon fever had not quite spread to this corner of town |
I think many can relate to the 'week before' caution we apply to our lives before race day. Holding on to stair rails, being the last to board and disembark public transport, keeping clear of crowds and eating foodstuffs prepared under our own close inspection. Most of it is madness, but why risk anything now? The Winchesterian itinerary for Friday was simple: eat, register, eat, sleep. There would also be a spa visit thrown in, simply to get one's 'money's-worth' from the hotel (cue worry of dehydration). Caution thrown to 'is it too far to walk into town' and 'will this food prove too spicy' I survived none-the-less.
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| Signing a hearty disclaimer |
Early evening, we drove across to race registration to sign-in, have the mandatory kit check and ensure that directions to the start line would be known and tested (nothing worse than an in-car rant over directions before a big race - especially when you'll need the girlfriend's support later on). Fittingly we turned into the entrance lane behind a truck of portaloos - sh*t just got real. It was all rather low key at race HQ and once registered there wasn't much left to see or do but repair to bed.
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| Follow that portaloo... |
In the words of Larry David, I slept pretty, pretty, pretty good. Whilst it would be a stretch to call it excitement, I did awake calm with thoughts of the day ahead. Preparations for an ultra are actually much simpler than a marathon. The importance of fueling is more a 'during' than 'before' concern, so after a couple of ghastly porridge pots and a banana, I was ready to rock. At a quarter past five I arrived to a bustling crowd of some 300 runners all kitted out in same-same-but-different ultra-running garb, a kaleidoscope of colour. The mood was relaxed and jovial, the majority of runners well accustomed to the early starts and long days. With a 30 hour cut-off, some would be aiming for just that whilst those looking to place would require little more than half that allowance (the course record being a mind boggling 14:03). The majority would be focused on sub-24 earning the coveted '100 miles 1 day' buckle. My aim, was first and foremost to ensure I finished sub-24, sub-22 would be pleasing, sub-20 would require some grit and determination and a perfect race. But of course after L2B 100km I wasn't going to put myself under such time pressures...was I?
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| Clearly no idea of what lay ahead |
Start: Winchester 0m - CP 1: Beacon Hill 9.9m
Ultra-marathon starts are anti-climatic at the best of times, but the SDW 100 definitely takes the energy gel. Before being unleashed onto the South Downs Way itself, there would first be a lap of the playing field to assure the full 100 mileness of the race. Approximately 300 metres into the loop the group came to a standstill as we funneled between the hedgerow and a barrier encircling the football pitch, half-joking at the lost seconds already had. Another 100 metres in and we passed once more the start line and the supporting hoards for a heroes send-off. Finally exiting the playing field through a hedgerow, after another queue, we were off.
There would be 14 checkpoints in total to pass through before reaching Eastbourne, in addition to a number of locations where runner's crew could offer support. I had predetermined where and when my loving girlfriend would meet me en route, to handle my nutrition and carry my kit for the later stages and for any change in conditions. Given the sheer mileage and length of the day ahead, we agreed that I'd plod on alone for the first quarter of the race before meeting up. This would allow her to return to the hotel for a snooze and a hearty breakfast before starting what was an epic day for her too. One must have an alert crew at all times.
The weather wasn't glorious, therefore welcomingly glorious. The sky was overcast, though with no threat of rain there was little to bemoan on the 'weather front'. I'd be seeing a whole day's worth of weather across a breadth of locations and whilst conditions could change up ahead it was looking ideal. I set off at a pace somewhere between "whoa whoa tiger we've far to go" and "giddy up horsey whilst your legs are strong". At times I'd see 8s and 9s flash up on the Garmin under 'current pace' but ultimately I was sticking to ten minute miles, covering six miles per hour seemed sensible. The first leg of the race covered ten miles, constituting a decent day's exercise to many, head-down and focused I ran light-footed, acquainting myself with some brutish incline from the get-go rather the order of the day. Religiously taking sips little and often (from my Salomon 'boobs' as the girlfriend christened them) and a gel on the half hour, the time flew by and in a mass convoy we rolled into the first checkpoint to stuff our faces and pockets.
CP 1: Beacon Hill 9.9m - CP 2: QECP 22.6m
Those that know me, know I love a buffet. What could be better, a sausage roll here, a twiglet there, slice of pizza, triangle sandwich, a little pick-and-mix. I was well aware that the aid stations would be 'well stocked' but I wasn't expected mid-budget wedding 'well stocked'. The sheer variety of foodstuffs at that first checkpoint was a logistical wonder. I truly believe my finish time suffered as a result of those checkpoints. At times I had to force myself to get going again.
I'd spent a great deal of time studying the route and familiarising where and when the checkpoints would fall throughout the day. For some peculiar reason I was of the opinion that the next checkpoint was at 15 miles, so felt no need to ration my drinks for what would be less than an hour's running. I certainly don't look for conversation when racing (or at any time in fact) but I'll always passionately return small-talk when pressed. With the field still tight-knit, I got chatting to a guy about the day ahead and our goals and strategies seemed to marry. He was quite certain that we had a good half-marathon until the next stop, and as I sifted my brain I happened to concur. Drat, was I losing my marbles so early on? I apologised for the ill-advice and confusion and put my 'boobs' away to suckle more frugally. Head down.
Up and down, down and up, even up and up, and some down and down, covering such incredible mileage along a route of similar flora and fauna (basically sheep and cows) the particulars of the race are hard to recall. What wasn't particularly hard to recall was the gargantuan downhill leading us into checkpoint 2 across the A3 to the QECP. The problem with downhills is that you are lured into thinking 'wahoo free-speed' but resist temptation my friend. Thunderous impact on the quads may lead to 'game over' later down the line. I have tremendous discipline on the downhill choosing to pitter-patter like a puppy, always conscious of slipping or taking a fall.
Turning into the QECP car park, nigh on a quarter of the way in, I broke into a manly stride just before my bag-lady girlfriend caught sight of her runner.
CP 2: QECP 22.6m - CP 3: Harting Downs 27.2m
I'm terribly biased of course, but my girlfriend is an incredible crew. Her level of organisation and time-keeping is simply wondrous. Not once have I ever ran through a stop to find her late or ill-prepared. It is such devotion that makes me terribly guilty when breezing through checkpoints hurriedly and egoistic. A typical conversation might go like this:
Girlfriend: "Hey, you're doing well. How do you feel?"
Me: "Yeah-yeah, fine"
Girlfriend: "Give me your bottles, I'll go fill them up"
Me: "Cheers"
Girlfriend: "What do you need food-wise?"
Me: "Nothing, I'm good"
Girlfriend: "Ok, let me wipe your face"
Me: "Urgh, get off"
Girlfriend: "I've seen twelve bunnies already!"
Me: "Concentrate when you're driving please. Ok, I'll see you in two hours, can you bring the pasta out with you please"
Girlfriend: "Will do, keep focused"
In reality it's a little less 1950's husband than that, it's all said with love. But that's the gist of being the support. After waiting around for a couple of hours, you get a brief conversation, possibly a sweaty kiss and then it's back to the car for the next postcode armed with a handful of rubbish to throw away. As the race grows older, you are met with mood swings and tantrums and soiled clothing to bag-up. It's not for everyone. Hence the bag-drop and the lone-married runner.
Not only is fueling more a 'during' than 'before' concern, but so too 'une visite a la salle de bain'. All that downhill had well and truly cemented things internally. As I came into QECP I was told that I had in fact passed the facilities. Not wishing to make backwards progress (in running terms at least) I chose to press on and take the risk, hoping I had another checkpoint or poo...sorry two in me. Worse case scenario, I had that map to hand.
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| Pressing ahead, taking the risk |
Gee whiz strawberry fizz, there was a lung-busting ascent from the checkpoint exit that forced us to walk but hurriedly so. From hereon whilst there were just shy of 80 miles left to cover, the shorter distances between checkpoints were easier to swallow and meant we were never much more than an hour away from support. After the climb, the remainder of the section was relatively flat, indeed the flattest it got. Continuing apace, the first marathon clocked up. One down, three more to go!
CP 3: Harting Downs 27.2m - CP 4: Cocking 35.1m
Worryingly, since around 20 miles in my hamstrings had become incredibly tight. Unsurprising though it may seem, given the amount of ascent, I couldn't help but extrapolate the current discomfort across the remainder of the race. If I were feeling this bad now, then surely in another x hours/miles I'd be walking like a constipated penguin? Would my hamstring be my achilles heel? It played on my mind throughout the first half of the race, alongside the mental torment of 'miles to go' and later 'hours until I can sleep'.
What did take my mind off things though was the fact that I was now running toward 'Cocking'. I'll sadly never be too old to find such a place name hilarious.
Now over a third of the distance covered, though not quite constituting a third of the time that would elapse, I ran in to Cocking...chuckle chuckle...across the most wondrous grass, lined by an orderly fleet of support vehicles. Up ahead I spied my superstar support, noticing that she'd chosen against reverse parking but so far so good, the country roads and questionable postcodes had not yet phased her. I updated her on the hamstrings and general tales of 'woe is me' which fell on deaf ears, not the compassion I was seeking but the right sentiment none-the-less to keep me on course.
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| Coming in to Cocking |
Beneath the aid station marquee (ever wondered how a marquee differs from a tent?) the motherly attention my girlfriend was lavishing me with did not go unnoticed by one elderly onlooker: "aren't you a lucky boy" and "ooh she sure looks after you, d'nt she" she suggested. She wasn't wrong, it was a lot more than most runners were getting. Whilst it was a joy to have the support throughout the race, one would wholeheartedly advise that you could potentially run the entirety of the course sans supplies, such was the food on offer at every aid station. Hats off to Centurion for organising a simply remarkable event.
CP 4: Cocking 35.1m - CP 5: Bignor Hill 41.7m
Leaving the checkpoint for Bignor Hill, there ahead of me was a portaloo in all its matte blue glory, I could not have been happier. I found it odd that a rest stop would only have the lone facility, as I cursed, willing the red indicator latch to turn green. Jeez, what's going on in there I thought. As I summoned the courage to give an 'all ok?' knock on the door, the door opened to show a bloody non-runner, casual with a 'ten minutes, and what?' attitude. Anyway, lost minutes, but worth the wait. You are what you eat, never more true. Eight energy gels.
Now post noon, my automated "good morning" exchanges were being corrected to "afternoon". The trail was full of life with ramblers, bikers, picnickers and a plethora of other 'ers' groups. It really is a wonder that we (myself included) choose to spend our downtime in shopping malls and city streets when such beauty is oh so near. The nature of the South Downs Way is such that you find yourself atop a hill often and the views are breathtaking. England may not have the drama of towering mountain ranges or raging rivers, but on a clear day there is a special beauty to her green and pleasant land. At times I would have loved to have taken a few moments respite to absorb the views around, but constant forward progress was the order of the day, and time was a-ticking.
Much of the running was up high after a sharp rise from Cocking. The 360° vistas did act as a mood enhancer though most of the time was spent looking downwards for foot placement such were the diabolical flint strewn pathways - ouch and ouch. The highest checkpoint of the day, with an incredible view ahead with the halfway point just over the horizon.
CP 5: Bignor Hill 41.7m - CP 6: Kithurst Hill 50.1m
The fact that the section started on a hill and finished on another, suggests it was a toughie. In fact there was around 1,000 feet incline and decline over the eight miles. This combined with the fatigue of running so far already, with more ahead, would explain my drop in mood and the usual thoughts of "why the hell am I doing this?". You can tell yourself all you want pre-race about how you’ll react when
times get tough, but when you are in
discomfort with half a day of running left to see through, it’s another story.
I always feel a great deal of guilt when I reach this stage, as I bemoan my
circumstances of which are voluntary in their undertaking. My (poor) girlfriend
was the recipient for much of this ranting as I met her at a crew stop around
mile 47. “Next time I talk about running GUCR or Spartathlon (150 mile races)
please remind me of this moment and just how whingy and uncomfortable I was not
even 50 miles in” I pleaded. I also tried to bookmark that feeling there and
then to later return to, should I ever enter such a race. Problem is the pain
is all too quickly forgotten, much like the experience of giving birth (so I've been told).
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| Sulky sulky-son |
CP 6: Kithurst Hill 50.1m - CP 7: Washington 54.0m
Passing the
halfway point felt good, now that I was nearer the finish line than the start.
In terms of race time though I was still well in the first half given the
inevitable slowdown to come. From Kithurst Hill it was a welcomed short descent
into Washington. Turning off the South Downs Way into the village of Washington
I was welcomed in by none other than Elvis Presley himself feeling ‘all shook
up’. The village hall was the first major stop promising hot food and the first
of two bag-drops for those to change gear and grab supplies.
I remember
sitting there trying to shovel in some hot pasta, staring into space, in no way
physically spent but just kind of bored, for which I felt a great guilt for.
Dragging my pregnant girlfriend around for the best part of a
day was tough on her, and I vowed to remain positive in her presence so as not
to bring her down too. I mean, smile, only 46 miles to go.
CP 7: Washington 54.0m - CP 8: Botolphs 61.2m
Back out onto
the SDW the run to Botolphs consisted of a level climb before descending to sea
level for checkpoint 8 on the cusp of 100km. Now late afternoon, my clothing
far from fresh, I met my girlfriend en route for a change of top and a caught
off-guard wet wipe to the face (urgh get off). Boy, tan lines like you wouldn’t
believe! I’d later discover the hilarious consequences of wearing gloves
throughout.
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| All change approaching 100km |
Where crew stops were located just before the checkpoints, I was often
stopping twice at around the same point. It was always good for the soul to
spend a few moments with my girlfriend to chinwag and check things over but
then I would find myself spending more time at a standstill eating and chatting
at the rest stop. For ‘next time’ there would certainly be scope to shave
minutes off, from combining the two. Another thing I’d implement (if I were
really seeking to save further time) would be to grab food in a bag and munch
on foot, rather than stood around. All about moving forward when you can.
CP 8: Botolphs 61.2m - CP 9: Saddlescombe Farm 66.6m
Much of the
route to Saddlescombe Farm was familiar to me having ran the exact section of
the SDW back in May at the 3 Forts Marathon. Back then the weather had been
atrocious and the fog had impaired the surrounding views. This time around with
clear skies in the early evening, it was evident what I’d missed out on first
time around. This familiarity was particularly comforting, knowing what lay up
ahead was reassuring. I fantasised about the seemingly incredible pace I had in
my legs that day and how I’d raced up those hills instead of the shuffling I
was now limited to. That said, I was experiencing a second wind after some
tough times, and my mental state was more buoyant.
Not far from leaving Botolphs I hit the 100km mark, in 11:58. Not bad. I
could have and should have run faster at L2B three weeks prior I thought to
myself. Each step from this point would be further than I’d ever run before.
There were a lot of steps left.
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| A little cloud, a little sun, perfect weather for a run |
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| Girlfriend and bump having a well earned rest |
CP 9: Saddlescombe Farm 66.6m - CP 10: Clayton Windmills 69.8m
I ran into checkpoint 9
with my spirits up, two-thirds (shy of 0.06 recurring) of the race down. Such
was the energy of the ladies ‘manning’ the stop, that even if my spirits had
been down, they would have been up by the time I left. One of the things I
absolutely adore about running is the community that supports it through
volunteering. I spent way too much time there, but it was worth it. The shortest
section of the race followed and it was nice to simply carve out a few miles to
more food.
CP 10: Clayton Windmills 69.8m - CP 11: Housedean Farm 76.6m
Running the best part of seven miles at this stage of the race was not
particularly swift. There was a crew stop midway to break up the time, where I
changed once again, into my night gear to get day-glowy and dry before the
cover of darkness. Leaving my girlfriend after the assistance, I sat down to
remove a stone from my shoe, a rather trivial matter. Oh the frustration. After
lacing up for a third time I was finally on my way, turning the air blue with
the realisation that my brain was now struggling to focus on minor tasks.
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| Up high on the South Downs Way |
The trail was up high for the entire section, providing a fine stage to
watch the sunset. Crossing another familiar point of another race, that of the
88km mark of London to Brighton, at Plumpton College. On that occasion there
are just 12km to go. I’d now clocked up 110km and it would be another 50km at
least to Eastbourne. A lot of time in the dark for me lay ahead.
Running down a steep descent, slipping into
darkness, I reached Housedean Farm and it was time for the head torch!
CP 11: Housedean Farm 76.6m - CP 12: Southease 84.0m
The beauty of running 100 of anything, is that it can all so easily be converted to percentage. Therefore as I pulled into Housedean Farm I was 76.6% of my way through the race. How terribly dull, allow me I'm an accountant. The majority of the time I'm running, particularly when racing, my mind is consumed by one of two things: foot placement and calculation. Which path to take, grass verge over rubble ridden road, and how's my pace, expected time to next checkpoint or more eagerly - finish time. It's probably the reason I go through stages of boredom (like you're having now!) such is the repetitiveness of it all. A quick percentage to fraction translation would have it that there was now less than a quarter to go of the 100 miles, but with a weary body and tired mind the best part of six hours lay ahead.
The checkpoint was manned by folk from Petzl - the title sponsor - so they were suitably impressed when I asked for assistance getting to my Tikka R+ headtorch to head out into the night. Now far into the race, the field was spread out and at the aid stations one would find a crumpled runner or two looking worse for wear. The run to Southease being a little over seven miles, at this stage was an effort, so before I left I ensured my belly was full and took on some s-caps washed down with lukewarm coffee, yum. Out on my own, with no runners in sight I plowed on up high for what would be the last of the light. As I viewed the setting sun I thought of how if it weren't for the running I'd never find myself out in the country enjoying these moments. High on life (and caffeine) I soon came down as I approached a stile swarmed by sheep. It's remarkable just how intimidated one can be by docile farmyard animals when alone. I survived, clearly, but not without some shooing and 'back to the fence' sidestep. A woolly moment.
As an East Londoner, under the cover of night
fall one rarely experiences true darkness such are the illuminations of
the city. Out in the country, when that current bun sets it adds a whole new
dynamic to running. Feelings of solitude, refreshingly so at times, can make
the tough times tougher or add a sense of calm and focus if spirits are high. I
was relatively upbeat as I ran alone, the novelty and adventure of wearing a
headtorch was enough. With a not so colossal distance awaiting me at the next
checkpoint, I ran in to Southease in a fairly good place mentally. This would
all change though on the other side.
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| Southease and darkness awaiting my arrival |
CP 12: Southease 84.0m - CP 13: Alfriston 91.6m
It was good
to see my girlfriend after what had felt like an age, but in reality was just a
couple of hours. The pair of us share a ‘special’ humour and know exactly how
to make one another laugh when required. Anticipating my weariness, she had
planned to pull out what can only be described as ‘the Bullseye game’. It’s a
very simple game, by which you call out “and Bully’s special prize...” at will
when you’ve got one. For example: “and Bully’s special prize, it’s a selection
of carriage clocks...it’s a washer/dryer...it’s a trouser-press...it’s a home
entertainment system....it’s a jet-ski and trailer...” Trust me if you’re ever
feeling down, give it a go (feel free to offer your best suggestion in the comments
box below).
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| ...remember, your money, tankards and bullys are safe |
I digress, it was a boost so
late on in the day, but not far into the next section all sense of humour
dissipated. Not even a “...it’s a garden sauna” would have perked me up. The
problem with darkness is that you can’t see anything. So when you are power
walking uphill in the fog telling yourself that “surely this must flatten out
soon” and it doesn’t, mentally it can be very disruptive. Visibility was so
poor, despite the aid of a very good headtorch, I could barely make out the
trail which at this point in early summer was trodden down grass at best. Looking
ahead, behind, left, right, up, down, head torch switched off, back on again, I
couldn’t make out any sign of a fellow runner. Worried that I was off course or
heading astray I slowed down to a stroll focusing hard on keeping to the route
I had assumed for some time now. Up ahead were a set of headlights and with a
memory escaping me, the cry of “Norris” was surprising. Bravo I thought as my
girlfriend continued to keep up with the agreed crew stops. Not so ‘bravo’ was
her inability to override the central locking, so for a moment we just stared
at one another through the driver’s side window. We all have different
strengths. For what was quite a mission I later heard in driving up to that
particular crew stop, the prize was lukewarm. I think I basically asked her what
direction I should head off in and head off I did.
With a slow tentative
progression I soon sensed the light of headtorches behind me and allowed it to
catch me up, now in a group of four, we eventually navigated out of the fog
onto more visible trail. The company was needed, and feeling the pinch of cold
and weariness of mind I even allowed myself to enter into conversation.
Sometimes it is good to talk.
Just shy of Alfriston, at
around 91 miles and approximately 19 hours in, my Garmin said goodnight and
died a death. A valiant effort indeed, albeit a DNF.
CP 13: Alfriston 91.6m - CP 14: Jevington 95.7m
The
village of Alfriston is a familiar sight having ran the Beachy Head marathon
now on five occasions.
That said, in the darkness of night, this familiarity is practically useless. What
was more encouraging though was that I was now less than ten miles to the
finish line in Eastbourne.
Soup was on offer and I
would have been a madman to have turned it down. Warmth and sustenance in a
cup. Keen to press on I had to dilute it with one of my boobs of water as it
was ‘hotter than the sun’.
I say water, it was more likely electrolyte. Or maybe it was just poor soup?
Hmmm, my taste buds at such a mile were not my own anymore. Such was the oddity of the event and given the time of night,
rumour had it that suspicious neighbours had called out an unmarked police car
to patrol the village!
Another example of how
little things become big things when you’ve ran a long way, was my failed
attempt to put on my jacket as I left Alfriston for the final checkpoint. To
save time I thought I could slip it on over my race vest (one of those half zip
type things) but alas it was not possible and I found myself in an ally, with
my arms up in the air helpless, cursing myself at the stupidity and hilarity of
the pickle I was in. Again, thank you to the lady who helped me out of my
entanglement.
Suitable dressed, I found
myself in a power walking group from the outset now savouring the final miles
rather than fretting over time. Even in a group we lost our way a little,
choosing the wrong side of this and that field, requiring us to tip-toe past cat-napping cows. Chat amongst the group was constant, now turning to congratulations
and reflection.
It wouldn’t be for the first
time that day but at this point my fantasies were close to becoming a reality.
No, not the sort to include ‘blonde’ and ‘duo’ but the bed part was certainly
part of it. The thought of laying day and going to sleep seemed so incredible,
that toward the end I was thinking more in terms of ‘time until sleep’ than
‘time to finish’. Another longing thought I had (and have had previously) was
the need for a cuddle. It wrecks you so much emotionally that you do have these
soppy (and terribly emasculating) moments where you crave affection. Rest
assured, these cravings have never grown so bad that I’ve approached a runner
for a hug! Though who knows where I’ll be if I run a 150 miler?
Craig, Craig, we said no…it’s too painful…don’t even contemplate it.
CP 14: Jevington 95.7m - Finish: Eastbourne 100.0m
Boom, the last
four miles! Whilst reaching the final checkpoint energised me emotionally, the
pistons weren’t firing sufficiently to turn this excitement into speedy action.
With little left to go, I merely passed through, topping up fluids and back out
into a purposeful walk, shall we say. There would be one long ascent before the
run down to Eastbourne along the residential roads to the finish line, where I
could then sleep. Still in a group, chatting away as we dug in for that one
final climb, we reached the top after seemingly no time where crazy
tent-pitched volunteers were up and about ensuring the runners took the right
path down to street level. God love the volunteers! I took this as my signal to
run through to the finish line alone and found I kept a good pace, descending down
a tricky path off the South Downs onto tarmac and assured footing.
To me at the time, which for
the record was now 3am, I galloped through the streets of Eastbourne (video
evidence would later show it was more a canter). Whilst I had studied the route
of the final miles through to the finish, I studiously paid attention to the
signage not wishing to make a wrong turn at this late stage. As if I was
leading, I kept looking back to see if anyone was keeping up and to ensure I’d
have a clear track for my victory lap. I’d earned that at least.
Finally turning into the
athletics track, the finish was as anticlimactic as the start. Unsurprising
though as fewer than 200 would make it to Eastbourne spanning the 14 hours from
first to final (cut-off) competitor. As I ran through the gates and on to the
track for a victory lap, the girlfriend was there waiting once more, on time,
upright and energetic as she'd been all day. What a performance I thought.
Maintaining what felt like an electrifying pace from street to stadium I
crossed the line at 03:24 to place 46th in 21:24:58.
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| Spent. |
Jubilation? Ecstasy? Pride?
Not really. Crossing the line I had an overwhelming sense of relief. What I had
set out to do was now done. That feeling stayed with me for a few minutes whilst
I was presented with my ‘100 miles 1 day’ buckle and stood for some photos that
shall ne’er see the light of day. After that, my focus turned to a swathe of practicalities.
How was my girlfriend feeling (she was seven months pregnant at the time – no,
I didn’t force her), how and where would we sleep, when would we drive home and
again, how was my girlfriend feeling, truthfully? The answers were swiftly
ascertained; “fine”, “in the car”, “in a couple of hours” and “just can you
hurry up and have a shower please”.
Inside, the race HQ
resembled a small aid effort. Bodies lying all over the floor in sleeping bags
and foil blankets with St. John’s Ambulance at hand seeing to the wounded and
frail. Showered and fed we repaired to the car for one of our less romantic
evenings. Girlfriend across the back seats, with me reclining in the passenger
seat. One of those life moments. It could have been far worse, I’d only just
made the switch from my beloved Ford Fiesta to Range Rover weeks before. Once
the novelty of sleeping in a car wore off, we drove home toot sweet, to sleep
and then sleep some more before going to bed.
I’ll leave it there. As I
write I am on my way to pick up my newly born daughter and opulent ramblings
must now take a back seat.
Should you take one thing
away from this blog post, make sure it’s the Bullseye game.
