Cockbain Events Track 100 - Riley's Round (and round and round)

 It's a simple premise, as most really difficult things usually are. 

Donate for Riley here via Just Giving

24 hours around a track, plus one extra hour for the change in clocks, to run 100 miles. I've chosen this as a fund raiser for Riley whose treatment for stage 4 stomach cancer is expensive and not available to him on the NHS. More about his journey here:

 My Cancer Journey: Chris Riley

After returning from injury last year I've been training under the watchful eye of my coach Kim Collison after being self coached previously. This has meant a change in approach for me and I have far more balance and focus to my sessions and the mileage is easy and I've been feeling great. This isn't my main goal for the year so while training has been going well there's a small taper and nothing too specific to 24 hours around a track apart from a few steady state road intervals at pace on the flat. We have a good chat before the race and cover various scenarios, rest, sleep, walking and problem solving on the go. All is good. 

I have a 3 hour drive in the morning to get to the track, which is just outside Cambridge, and when I get there I meet a fellow competitor Martin who has driven down the night before from Glasgow. We talk football and running for a bit before finding our way to the track to drop our boxes at the side. 

When I said it's a simple premise that's perhaps an understatement - no hot water, limited snacks, one box per competitor, no music (no headphones), cold water to top up with and two portaloos. Plus no shelter. My box and bag of spare clothes is next to the outside lane on a strip of flags around the outside and I quickly decide to put my bag inside a bin bag for the rain forecast later on. I've brought enough food for about a week in the box with what I think to be a good selection - but what I also know is that no matter what you bring you always want something else!

We mask up, register, line up and set off. It's that simple.

403 laps to get to 100 miles. Round and round and round and round and round and round we go.

The first 4 hours are pretty good and I cover the anticipated distance of about 25 miles, I get chatting to Martin again and also Alex who are running at about my target pace of 9:30 a mile. Then I do a couple of laps with James who is leading to see what sort of pace he's doing and it's too fast for me but good fun to run a little for a couple of laps. Then I get a bit bored so start to run a little faster than planned but try singing as I go around (sorry folks) to keep a lid on the pace. I do that for a while then drop back to steady. 

Then it starts to rain. A little earlier than forecast and with increasingly strong winds to go with it. In fact most of the runners are adopting a 300 metre run 100 metre walk strategy treating the 100 metres into the headwind and the driving rain as an uphill. I add a coat. Then I change in to my waterproof over trousers and also my winter coat. 

Photo: Karen Webber

So 50 miles in - about 8 and a half hours. This is still on track and I'm ok but starting to lose the will to carry on a bit. In the next 8 hours I slow to a grindingly painful pace. I'm covering the bare minimum to maintain forward motion. I chat to Claire, who I know from Deadwater number 2, and we have a section that lifts my spirits but then I stop. I lose my head completely. I'm shivering, staggering, weaving, slowing down and generally feeling really sorry for myself. For most of this time I'm trying to work out how I can quit with honour. The numbers on the track are thinning visibly as more people drop out. There's a woman in pink flying round. Then she's gone. Two men running together who drop out one after the other. others who I don't notice until they're not there. 

I've left it too long to check on how things were going. I've walked a few laps now crying in frustration about how I'm feeling. My hands on my head. I really don't want to carry on anymore. I don't want to run anymore. I don't want to do any more running anywhere ever again. Ever. 

Tony, who I know from Deadwater number 1, has been brilliant and we keep having a little word. As has Alex who has a positive word every time she comes by, which is frequently. Paul Wilson, who I've just met, says hello as we have mutual friends and also a mutual love of the fells and I have a couple of quicker laps while we chat but I have to drop off the pace. 

The next 4 hours are a painful slog in the wind, rain and darkness until I realise that I'm in danger of not finishing the 100 within the 24 hours. I compromise my goals pre-race and decide that sub 24 for 100 miles has to be my main focus rather than running for the full 25 hours - which at this pace would take me right up to the limit. In order to do that I'm going to need to take in more calories and it suddenly dawns on me that I've not been keeping up with this. The combination of wind and rain plus cold has meant that stopping and opening boxes and bags and then choosing food has been too much. So I've ignored it. So much for problem solving on the go - well you can only start from where you're at so what do I need?

Photo: Karen Webber

My head's gone and my legs feel like they did in UTMB when I couldn't walk, what rescued me there was rehydrating with electrolytes and taking on liquid calories. So I crack open a Precision 100 packet in my drink and take on a Kendal Mint Co. Gel which is like drinking liquid gold. It's a start but I need to keep on top of this. I open my bag and there's my Montane Fang 5 rucksack that I'd planned on using to hold a drink and some snacks so they were at hand. I put it on and stock up. Water, apple, banana, more gels, Torq powder and some Haribos. Now I can drip feed my stomach.

Next problem - speed, and lack thereof. I rummage around for my phone which has been stuffed well away in a pocket. I thought if I needed to  use it then it might hasten my reasons for quitting. I fire up the lap Timing Monkey website and see the laps tick off as I cross the line. I've dug myself out of holes before, do I really have it in me to do it again? I remember on my Paddy Buckley Round arriving at Aberglasyn with two legs left to run and exactly the time left as I had on my schedule. I burst in to tears as soon as I sat down because I knew I had nine and a half hours of pain to get through to the end and I was going to have to count every minute to keep track. I finished with 12 minutes to spare. Do I want this enough?

There's a lot rightly said about Lance Armstrong and his career but what I remember most from reading his book 'It's Not About The Bike' is not how great the story was of his comeback but of his stark assessment of cancer survival. It didn't matter if you were a fighter or not, cancer didn't care. He didn't survive because he was a fighter or through some brave struggle; he survived because his treatment worked. When I'm running events the challenges are all arbitrary, this hill, this many mountains, this many laps. There is control. All variables are controllable or can be mitigated. Riley wants the best chance to get the best treatment he can. This is going to hurt. 

I've already negotiated with myself to finishing when I reach 100 miles rather than running the whole 24 or 25 hours. Now that's settled I've a target I can aim for. I up the pace and embrace the pain. It feels like I'm flying but I'm also aware that running hard in my current state is going to hurt not just now but also later. After a few laps I dial back the pace and settle into a rhythm of a few quicker laps then a few slower ones, not dissimilar to my interval training but a lot slower. I see my position raise from 15th to 11th then realise I can catch 10th. I identify who I think the runner is who's ahead of me (I'm wrong lol) and run a flying lap to get one ahead before I hit 400. I gain a lap on everyone left so it shows as a success on the lap timer but it's only when I've finished and see 11th place also finish that I realise I've been chasing the wrong person.

I cry all the way round my final lap, taking in great big gulps of air. I'm absolutely finished. I kneel down by my box for about half an hour trying to drag some warm clothes on. Then I hobble to the van and assess my swollen legs and feet. Half an hour later I make it back to collect my box from the track and there are two runners left. I hobble back to the van again and lie down before I can even think about the return drive, which will be after a good rest. I can't move very well at all. But I'm buzzing that I finished strong. 'It's all come back together for you' one of the runners had said as I was in my finishing 4 hours. 'Too little too late' I replied but maybe that's being a bit harsh on myself. It took too long for me to identify the problem but when I did it got sorted. I hit one of my targets which was a sub 24 hour 100 mile run - my first ever. 403 laps, 100 miles, 22:28:29 and tenth place. 21 finished out of 42 starters with over 50 registered. The medal also doubles as a bottle opener.

When Mark and Karen presented me with my medal and took photos at the end I said 'Tick - never again' and I absolutely meant it. But the runners ahead of me were impressive and disciplined and it's hard not to want to be a bit more like that next time. Your first 24 hour track race is just to test the water right?

More importantly I'm nearly at my revised £1000 target for fund-raising with a few days left to go until the link closes. If you have enjoyed reading about my pain (or even if you haven't to be honest) all donations very much appreciated. 

Link to donate via Just Giving

Deadwater 2018 Day 6 - Rush To The Castle

I tiptoe out of the tent where I've been sleeping, the rest of the second wave still definitely (noisily) asleep. I pop over to the tent HQ which has a makeshift array of tents and water urns, bags and bodies. There's a mixture of taping and breakfast going on. Smiles at the realisation this is the last day. 'Spare' food can be jettisoned and the packs' weight should be the lightest it's been all week.

During conversation I float the idea that Maria had about going for a record time and the general consensus is that it's a great idea, good on her. So that seals it. I leave them to it after filling my own breakfast mug and final food pack.

The camp staff have rotated on a regular basis with teams of people working hard behind the scenes to make sure this race works. They are largely invisible, except at checkpoints, and I'm conscious I've been flying through those without much chat. Equally when I get in I've been focused on sorting myself out and making sure I maximise my recovery. They have all been wonderful all week and today is no exception - working around the edges, tending to people's needs, setting up and taking down the camps and dressing up on route. It's all been a bit of a blur and likely as not today will be the same until the finish. There's no way I can say thank you enough to everyone who worked on the race and I hope they appreciate that without them there can be no race, no life changing experiences or limits stretched. They're an amazing group of people and Richard ensures they work together for the good of the race at all times.

I wave off the early starters and then start my own preparation in earnest. Food in the right places, water topped up. Contents of the bag arranged so it sits on my back nicely. Shoes - I was going to run the last two days in the same pair of road shoes however after they rubbed yesterday, despite me having clocked up hundreds of miles in them, I'm reverting back to my trail shoes. I got them for £15 off a friend mid-way through the year and as soon as I put them on my feet let out a sigh. That's what I need for today.

And what a day. I have never had a day like it. The final 31 miles.

We line up on the start line and shake hands, it feels odd to be in such a reduced field. And then we go. No jogging off the start today, no holding back - I'm off. There's a main road to cross before we hit the paths so I slow to cross it and then it's head down and run hard. I do make a couple of navigation errors because my brain can't process the way as fast as I'm going but it's a balance I'm happy with. Every now and then I'll pass an earlier start runner and they give me an encouraging word or shout 'chase that record' after me. My eyes start to leak - more food. I want to slow down. I tell myself to carry on I force myself to move my legs, turning over my feet as my eyes and head start to cry at the effort. Do not slow down. Do not slow down.

At the first checkpoint they have a Santa hat for the runners to pose for a photo and they say they'll only fill my water if I wear the hat. I start to fill my water myself and they pop the hat on my head and snap - nobody will escape us, we thought you might be a tricky one. I laugh, still tears in my eyes and move on thanking them. Just after the checkpoint I come across Jo, Tim and Andy on the canal, the last of the early runners. I've caught up the additional time in just short of 8 miles and as I run past Jo shouts, 'Push him in.' I smile and move on, tears still streaming down my face. This is already hard work.

 I push and push and push like I never have before. I balance tears and feeding, running and jogging, navigating and running hard. Along the way I remember last year, running with Hayley and trying to keep her spirits up as she finished the last day in agony. She had been strapped up for a couple of days however the pain on the last day was unbearable. On returning to real life after finishing it turned out she had a stress fracture. Just let that sink in. She finished the race running with a broken leg, and in a great time as well - fourth overall and second woman. Keep moving. Keep moving.

My brain is trying it's hardest to motivate me. I remember watching a film about Bradley Wiggins winning the Tour and he said it only twigged he could do it when he realised that everyone was always only 3 minutes from blowing. You just need to hold on for 3 minutes. Then another 3 minutes. Then another.

This is agony. I want to stop. I don't want to stop. I keep running. Tears are flowing now and I can't stop them but I keep my feet turning over. Don't stop. Don't stop. Then I enter a field with high, high hedges and in the corner is a stile I have to go over. There's no way around or through anywhere else. Over the stile a cow with a rather impressive set of horns has rested it's head and is looking at me. Behind it, in the corner of the field where the stile is, lie a herd casually gathered together. I don't like cows, never mind cows with horns. I haven't run this hard and pushed myself today to have it taken from me by a field of cows so I harness my inner Crocodile Dundee and put my hand on the forehead of the cow, speaking softly but firmly and telling it that I'm just coming through and it needs to back off. Which it does as I gingerly step over and in to the field, walking purposefully but deliberately towards the exit corner. The others are still lying down but the cow starts to agitate it's feet so I shout 'Back off!' and it stops. I reach the exit stile and clamber up it and off and away. A jolt of adrenaline is probably just what I needed at this stage!

I can hear the banging of a cowbell, Hayley and her son Freddy are at the last checkpoint. I'm a mess of tears, sweat, snot and dribble and she fills my water and gives me a hug. Then she shouts after me, 'All the way to the end.' I briefly think that's a strange thing to say, I know it's to the end of this road and then there's a path, thinking it a simple direction to where I need to go. Then it dawns on me she was exhorting me to push all the way to the end, leaving nothing in the tank. My eyes start to water again and I up the pace.

Hayley filming me leaving the checkpoint.
https://www.facebook.com/hayley.robinson.969/videos/10211498287125699/?t=2

 I'm on empty now, running on fumes but still going. I overshoot a turn in the centre of Chester and end up circling back round to the finish. I barely register that there are people milling around and that I must be a strange sight. I know I'm close to getting under 5 hours for the stage and if I can just find the finish I'll make it.

The finish.
https://www.facebook.com/BeyondMarathon/videos/2331469603536778/


The final stage finished in 4 hours 57. The full 235 miles finished in 44 hours 23 minutes.

That's a lot quicker than my time last year and this years was longer and with a significant extra climb in Wild Boar Fell. I'm over the moon and exhausted. There is pizza and finally a chance to rest. There are a few people at the finish waiting. Scott's parents, who I lent the coat to and who then booked a holiday to Majorca when he pulled out, come and say hello. They've made the trip down from Scotland to see him but he pulled out of course and they still had the booking. They seem lovely. Paul's family also arrive along with the race crew who are not still out on the course. The runners come in one by one and we congratulate each other with hugs and smiles. Paul needs to get off to hospital because he has had an accident jumping over a fence and impaling his hand. We both made the same error early on and instead of doubling back all of 200 metres we both decided to scale the fence. I nicked the end of  my thumb, Paul impaled his hand. Andy was around to patch it up for him so he could carry on but it does need to be looked at professionally before he returns for the evening presentation meal.

Awards are given, Paul is second and Andy third overall,  Jo has won first Female with Claire getting second, people chat, the meal is lovely and is spent in the company of a wonderful group. When Andy Cole, Vet 70, gets up to receive his finishers medal there is an audible gasp from everyone. He bounds to the front, no hint of any ache or pain at all. While there he acknowledges that he should perhaps at least try and pretend to be sore and makes an attempt to limp back to his table. He can't even do that without looking like someone who is so fit and healthy they could have just walked in off the street. Everyone laughs. Brilliant.

And that's that. Tomorrow a few of us will walk the short distance to the Welsh border. Marking the end of a complete journey on foot from Scotland to Wales. Breakfast in the hotel is wonderful, as is an actual bed and a bath. People drift off in ones and twos.

There are people who I know by face, some by name, others only by their actions or participation from a distance as our paths don't cross. I'm rubbish at names and faces. The Deadwater family is a special one and if you're a part of it please know how special you all are. Thank you.

https://deadwater.run/

Original list of starters:
 1 Karl Shields 2 Fiona Ashton-Smith 3 Jo Kilkenny 4 Kevin Otto 5 John Parkin 6 Claire Bishop
7 Caroline Ness 8 Timothy Downie 9 Craig Mackay 10 Nic Vincent 11 Gregory Crowley 12 Andy Cole 13 Alasdair Moore 14 Andy Robertson 15 Michael Cooper 16 Tom Crossland 17 Scott Lothian
18 Paul Nelson

Competitive finishers:
1         John Parkin         Male 40-49 44:23:40
2 Paul Nelson Male  50-59 48:07:13
3 Andy Robertson Male 18-39 51:45:08
4 Gregory Crowley Male 50-59 56:17:12
5 Jo Kilkenny Female 18-39 74:02:37
6 Timothy Downie Male 60-69         76:22:26
7 Kevin Otto Male 60-69 78:43:15
8 Alasdair Moore Male 18-39 78:57:21
9 Andy Cole Male 70+ 81:08:37
10         Claire Bishop Female 40-49    83:18:10

Deadwater 2018 Day 5 - Canal Hell

The only place to start on day five is with the end of day four, which for those now finishing is the same thing. Tim, Kevin and Jo all finish within a few minutes of each other just short of 24 hours after setting off. They will be looked after, checked over and then ready to start the 30 miles to the evening campsite in Warrington. Alasdair, Andy (Cole) and Claire take just short of 25 hours and will also be ready to go when the starter sounds. Some people will set off and then immediately take some rest as part of their stage five time in order to patch up and carry on. Andy however is very chipper and says he's timed it perfectly for a quick nap before heading straight out again. Throughout the whole race he has run well within himself and has clearly matched his pace to his planning so all is well - he's smiling, happy and an absolute joy to have in camp. Then you remember that he's also in the Vet 70 category and your brain starts to hurt a bit.

Tim coming in - I didn't know if he'd want to be filmed finishing so I cut it short.
https://www.facebook.com/john.parkin3/videos/10155526691712595/?t=3

Jo and Kevin finishing - I just filmed them!
https://www.facebook.com/john.parkin3/videos/10155526693292595/?t=10

When we do start I chat to Andy (Robertson) and we tuck in behind Paul who is leading through the early stages. We apply a variation of the old adage about the toughest part of a run is being able to find your way out of the car park in the first mile or so before we get to the canals and also get wet feet running through the wet grass. Oh well. As we're about to cross a main road to get to the canal proper a voice shouts 'Andy' and he turns to see a friend who has come to chat to him for a while. He slows before crossing but Paul is already across and motoring so I have a split second to decide whether it's a racing day or a friendly day. It's a racing day of course so I shout, 'See you later,' and jump after Paul across the road and we run together for a short while.

What I found last year was that I tried to be friendly and run with a group of people at their pace along the canals. I tried, I really did. But it messed with my head trying to go at someone else's pace. I feel a bit like this now and want to plug in my music and find my own rhythm. There are a few places, truth be told, even on a stage that is mostly canals, where you need to pay attention as it crosses from one side to another. I decide to move ahead and then settle in to my own rhythm. The first thing I have to do is backtrack as I've missed a turn. I feel a bit stupid as I turn around to correct the mistake and wave to Paul who is approaching in the distance but then run off again and spend the rest of the day on my own.

When you're running in the mountains or on trails being on your own is a joy. There's things to see, places in the distance to wonder about and generally places where the natural variation of the terrain gives you a physical and mental break. On the 27 miles of canals that make up this 30 mile stage you are alone with yourself and your capacity to keep moving at a certain speed. That is all. On and on and on. And on. And then on a bit more. Part way through the stage you have to cross Manchester to get to another canal and you have to run past coffee shops and bars, humans going about their business. It's a bit of a shock since for the most of the week we have been on the hills and now we're in a city centre.

It's called Canal Hell for a reason. It's relentless. If you stop and walk then you could easily double your time. I try and find things to do to keep my pace going. Music is good but only for so long, I try counting paces in my head and then repeating. Half way into the stage and I can feel a rubbing in my shoe. I monitor it and resolve to check again in half an hour if it's still there. It is. There's a fine line between ignoring something and taking time to check to ward off future problems that will save time in the long run. It's not a line I'm very good at judging clearly as when I do stop and take my sock off there is literally nothing there. Nothing at all. When I put my sock back on the rubbing feeling appears again so I ignore it until the finish. Which is when I find a blister. Of course I do.

 I have a wobble about three quarters of the way through the stage and a little cry to myself. This is usually a warning sign that I'm under fuelled so I take on more. I see what my brain classes as a jogger (don't judge me) come out from a wall on the right a few yards ahead of me. Cap on, stereo in ears and jacket tied around her waist. I think this could be a good way to keep my speed up and try and jog along staying the same distance behind. How absolutely humbling to have that idea shot down in flames as she jogs off into the distance, barely even breaking sweat, as I struggle onwards to a finish line that doesn't want to appear.

For others the day is a straightforward slog to the finish. For Tim, who has been running with an infection, he has to be taken from the canal to be medically checked, diagnosed and prescribed medicine before being dropped back at the point he left. Wow.

Last year a friend ran with me for a few miles into the finish, I managed to persuade myself that there were several uphill sections on the way in to the finish. He laughed and said, 'It's Cheshire - there's no hills around here mate.' I tell myself those same words again as my brain tries to tell my legs to stop moving. Keep moving. Keep moving. Keep moving. And there's a whisper in the back of my mind, 'I bet Paul is still running.' I shed another tear and my legs keep moving. This. Is. Hard.

And then it's over. Finally over. I've destroyed my time from last year and I'm more than a little shocked that I've run the 30 plus miles in a little over 5 hours 15 minutes. I'm immediately interviewed by RD Richard at the finish - I think you can hear my confusion at the time!

https://www.facebook.com/BeyondMarathon/videos/2330250486992023/?t=2

And that's stage five done with only one day left and a healthy lead. Paul finishes in 5 hours 41 and that would have put him back in the lead if I'd run the same time as last year.  Greg and Andy (Robertson) also both run times quicker than my last year's time and finish in 6:15 and 6:33 respectively.

Except of course it isn't done. Last year I walked in the people who had been out all day when it got dark. The last mile includes a narrow bridge before a turn into the campsite and an extra guiding voice, torchlight and moral support was helpful. Alasdair is staggering in the final mile after a day four of  24:44 and a day five of 14:05. That is some resolve and mental strength. When he's back I can rest easier in preparation for tomorrow knowing everyone is in and safe. The final day will have an earlier start for six to try and coordinate the finish times a little more and four of us who are in the first four positions will set off together.

I send a text to my daughter saying that I'm going to take it easy on day six. My foot hurts and my knee feels like it could go at any point. I get an immediate response - 'False'. I look at it wondering if I've misunderstood the message or if my tired brain is reading it wrong. I send another explaining that it will be nice to have a final day like in the Tour De France where everyone isn't really racing and I can stop my injury from getting worse and blowing up. I wait.

'False. The last day is the time when  you can most risk it blowing up because there is no day seven. You need to run so that this race has the best time that the best you can do now so that when it's run again they are racing against the best you can do for the whole race.'

I'm so proud of this response from her. And as I mull it over I think she might have a point. After accidentally taking the lead and then having Paul push me on every stage I am unlikely to ever run this race as well again, that's assuming that I even run it again. I could set a time that the next race could try and beat, a course record worthy of the title. Damn it.

As I turn over to get some sleep I decide to get up and have breakfast with the early starters and see what they think of the idea, inside though I'm already on board with the plan. It's a simple one.

Run hard to the finish, then stop.

Deadwater 2018 Day 4 - The Long Day

On the morning of The Long Day Karl has to pull out, he says his goodbyes to us all explaining that he'd plugged into his 'real' life (or is it the other way around?) and something has come up at work that he needs to deal with. He looks genuinely gutted as we mill around in the morning and I had been looking forward to getting to know him a bit better over the next few days having only just started to talk to him. We are reducing in numbers on a daily basis and slowly but surely by the end of the week there will be only ten competitive finishers. If you do have to retire Richard will let you carry on for the week, fitness and medical checks permitting, in order to finish but not as part of the race times.

This day, more than any other in my opinion, will help decide the final standings. Last year I was three hours ahead of the next finisher which meant I could take it easier for days five and six and get to know some of the other runners a bit more. I expect no such luxury this year and given Paul's obvious quality over long distances I have a hearty breakfast of vegetable hotpot to see me right for the first couple of hours. It was this day last year that I started with chilli for breakfast after I'd swapped a dried meal with Ivan at the drop bag evening feast the night before. I just couldn't handle another day of porridge, despite having porridge every morning usually. I'd planned for this to happen this year and reduced my breakfast meals accordingly so I had more variety to choose from. Effectively having two evening meals a day - one for breakfast and one for tea.

At the start I am concentrating a bit more than usual. I've checked my bag a couple of times and moved my food for the day to accessible pockets. I've got water and sachets of sports drink on hand for later when food may be too much. I know the terrain but know that Paul does too - we are still on The Pennine Way for most of the day so there's not much advantage there. I decide my race strategy for the day is to go out hard and hold on. Those who know me know that's not really much of a plan and that I normally set off too fast in races and then hang on to the finish. I've never mastered the art of negative splits or even pacing and like (maybe that's too strong a word) running with a bit of fear to keep me moving. (Those of you reading this and running in 2020 please note I will have mastered all racing tactics including these and many, many more by then!)

I bolt off the start line at the sounding of the starter and grab a gap on the first climb up the side of Penygent. It's risky but it's also controlled. I do glance behind frequently and see my gap growing. I hold it at a comfortably uncomfortable pace and crack on. This stage is really a wonderful variety of terrain and a real showcase for where I live. Arriving at Malham Tarn I adjust my clothing and bag a cracking photograph shot on my way past before checking in and out of the checkpoint. Really I do have an advantage here because I can break up the stage in to chunks that work for me. Push on to Malham, take it easy down the limestone staircase and then plod along the river to Gargrave.

https://www.facebook.com/BeyondMarathon/videos/2328528167164255/?t=1

Approaching Gargrave I see someone running towards me and it's Tom come out to say hello. He knows me and also Paul, both of them having a Spine Race pedigree. He runs with me for a bit and knows he can't offer any help or assistance so stands by admirably silent while I nearly get lost a few times. There's an especially tricky bit around the canal where the trace seems to be on the other side, there doesn't seem to be a path and I'm trying to manage my rising mini-panic when I remember to look at the map and then where to go and calm down. After a bit of a chat he turns around and runs back to spend a little time running with Paul as well. This is a lovely, and unexpected, boost and before I know it I'm approaching my home ground. I can hear my family cheering and ringing cowbells as I approach the gate and they zoom round to wave at me from the road as I cross in several places up and down through Lothersdale and Cowling before I head off on my own. Again this is a lovely boost and in a turn of tables Kate is Facebook live videoing me instead of the other way around which makes me smile.

https://www.facebook.com/sally.golightly1978/videos/10155607281767256/?t=7


I'm up and over Ickornshaw moor, which is a slog at the best of times, and coming down to the next checkpoint at a reservoir when another friend, Gary, comes into view around a corner. 'Blimy,' he says, 'you're moving fast and I know it's not for the camera because you didn't know I was here.' He's hurt his leg and jogs to keep up as we descend having a chat before getting to the checkpoint where I sit for about 3 seconds, fill up my water and then get off.

Andy from last years race is on this checkpoint and he's encouraging and I know he understands that I just need to crack on so I get rid of my race food rubbish, say my goodbyes and head up towards Top Withins.

This next section is another lovely stretch which is undulating and with a real variety of terrain; sometimes open moor with what seems a wide choice of direction options and sometimes narrow, walled paths rollercoasting over the land, slowly grinding uphill and then shooting over the top and down the other side with views worthy of being more than just background to a race narrative. There's often a checkpoint on The Long Day that offers officially sanctioned additional race snacks as a boost. It's not guaranteed, of course, and it could be anywhere. This year it's just before Stoodly Pike. Last year I refused to take any because I wanted to finish the race on what I'd planned to carry. Well I may be daft but I'm not stupid so this year I grab something and head off.

Walking up the path to Stoodly Pike with a steak slice in one hand and a can of coke in another I feel like a king. I'm not much for fine dining but I can't remember any meal tasting or feeling so good. The section from Stoodly Pike itself to the next checkpoint, at The Whitehouse Pub, is another that always feels to me to be longer than it should. There's often a headwind, which is a pain, and it's flat enough that there's no real excuse for not running it. Which is also a pain, and potentially painful on sore feet. For what seems like forever there has been a diversion around one of the reservoirs and sure enough there it is on my trace so I jump over to start it. Then I glance over and realise the thing that's nagging my brain is the absence of fences and workmen and machinery on the main route. I stop and get out my map, which means adjusting my pack but I think it's worth it. Sure enough the line on the map doesn't use the diversion and keeps to the path. That was a good decision to take a little time over and I jump back over to the main path and find my cruise gear to take me along the path.

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The end is fiddly, there's no two ways about it. It's well signposted this year but I did go back and forwards a few times last year wondering if I was right or not as there are plenty of times when you think the end is near and then the path seems to throw you a curve ball. But eventually I drop down to the road that's along from the campsite and run through the finish line. Nailed it. Last year I finished in 13 hours 46  and I was made up with that. This year it's 12 hours 56 minutes and I let out a shout. Happy with that, really happy. I collapse into the checkpoint and am looked after immediately by a wonderful volunteer who asks all the right questions. Hot water? Not yet. Sit down? Lovely. Shall I show you where the showers are? I'm ok, are they the same as last year? Yes. Right then let's get this routine done and look after myself before I think about anything else. One aspect of multi-day, self sufficient racing that I've found (with a grand total of 12 days experience so far) is it's the little things that make the most difference. I've got some dehydrated single use flannels and some soap leaves that take up no room at all but provide enough to wash and clean me every day after each stage in the mostly warm showers and an Alpkit travel towel that really is small but dries wonderfully well and then dries out quickly afterwards. I get clean and dry and head back for the hot water on offer to make a drink and my meal just in time to see Paul arrive, somewhat less than amused about the fiddly end to the stage. A while later Andy and then Greg arrive but it will be longer still before anyone else comes in to camp.

Paul finishes in 14:13, Andy a bit further back in 15:03 and then Greg in 16:48 before others come in into the morning. So another chunk of time added to my lead however unless you've met Paul I don't think you have a good understanding of what the word competitive means. If I slow for a moment he will make up time hand over fist and with a long flat day, 31 miles of canals, to come tomorrow it's less a case of fitness and more a case of mental strength to keep moving at speed when there's no reason to slow down except those you find for yourself.  As I ponder how to tackle the challenge of the next day I'm mindful of the fact that there are still some people out on the course who won't get in until breakfast time and then go straight out on to the next day's stage. That's a cumulative total of 91 miles non-stop, with a full pack and no sleep. Suddenly the thought of getting a nights sleep and then waking up and running a shorter stage doesn't seem quite the task it was before. As there is a later start in the morning there's no sense going to bed too early as I'll only wake up early and when I finally do decide to go to sleep I decide to let tomorrow just happen and roll with it, it could be an interesting day on the flat.

Deadwater 2018 Day 3 - The Wild Boar

I start the day with a short walk to the barn where all the electricals are plugged in and the clothes have been drying over night. My gear is dry and warm but smells heavily of fumes. Lovely.

Mornings on Deadwater are a time I enjoy. There's a real simplicity of breakfast, coffee, changed, packed, feet up then go. It takes a bit to pack things away in the right place, roll things up, put bags around the right things to keep them dry, get some order to your pack and then try it on standing up so you don't get a shock when you set off. There's a nice rhythm to the morning, relaxed, chatty, full of optimism for what lies ahead.

What lies ahead today is Wild Boar Fell and this includes a sizeable chunk of the 44 miles that I've neither run nor reccied before. In fact the start of the stage is the same but quite quickly becomes new territory for me as last year we had a massive diversion due to the weather and that's even before we were ferried around the fell. So plenty of opportunities for errors, lots of time on our feet and some pretty decent climbs in and amongst the trails, fields, tracks and roads.

I've made a decision to try and win every stage mentally in my head now, I think it's possible and it's quite a motivating thought. A little jog together through the early gates and I know it gets twisty from there on in so I can be around a corner and off out of sight before you know it. And so it proves. A couple of minor Nav errors here and there that I have to correct but nothing to worry about. I do keep glancing behind me every now and then to see if there's company approaching but I can't see anything so crack on. Early on there's a mixture of road, trail and fields. One track in particular looks like it's never been run on before with nettles and brambles towering over me. This leads to a field full of cows. Full. I don't like cows. The field is slightly up hill and there's a small plank bridge in the middle over a little stream ditch. I walk slowly through the field and all the cows turn to look at me as I do. Later on Andy will tell me they knew which way the path went because all the cows were all still looking in that direction.

I get a little confused at one point and nearly head off from the side of a river over a bridge and up a road into the distance but after a bit of consulting with the map and trace I go back and find a gate at the side of a house that I'd missed. The feeling of rising panic and subsequent relief gives me a bit of a jolt. Butterflies about what decision to make and then the realisation I've made made the right one makes me smile. It would have been easy to carry on regardless and hope for the best, especially trying to build a lead, but making the right decision is always more important than making a quick one, a lesson I've learned before,

There's a decent section of road then before Wild Boar Fell which is not unpleasant to run on and it's on a stretch that was the same as last year so I can comfortably jog along at a decent pace. After checkpoint 9, which is at the Fat Lamb Inn, it's onto tracks up and over Wild Boar Fell. I've cycled past this before and it looked impressive. It is a pretty straightforward climb, paths obvious and well marked and matching both the map and the trace. There's a short descent and then a climb up a secondary fell before a long descent to Garsdale which seems to take forever. The skies have been clear today, none of the rain and clag of yesterday although there was a little loss of visibility on the very top.

I'm blowing a bit as I start the climb up  The Coal Road so take on more food and drink and get a cheery smile from Richard while topping up my water at the checkpoint in the station car park. I knew I recognised this bit of road - I've cycled up it before on the Etape Du Dales, zig-zagging from side to side due to it's steep and unrelenting nature. I look up and laugh, at least I'm not having to carry my bike up as well. There's a track off to the left after what feels like a lifetime which leads around Great Knoutberry. I'm on familiar ground now as this is Fellsman territory which has become one of my annual races. At checkpoint 11 on the road before the final descent I take on more water and decide to run down to the finish with a spring in my step. I was on part of this section earlier in the year supporting a friend running The Dalesway. Its actually quite a long way from here to the finish although on the map it seems a lot shorter, funny that!

I breathe in and swear I can smell Pot Noodle on the breeze again, just like last year. This is the evening when we get our drop bag of food and I've got two Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodles to feast on and a can of gin and tonic. It was so nice last year that I've doubled the portion - why change it? I've judged my food for the first three days about right. I've got very little left and I had enough choice to keep me eating while I was running. Andy less so as we chat later in the evening. He has run the whole 44 mile stage on half a packet of wine gums. My mouth hangs open while I digest this news as we chat. I say to him that he should have said something. But then would I have known how much I had to share? Half a packet of wine gums. 44 miles. Don't try this at home kids!

I can see what looks like my car parked on the road and make the bird call that's something of a family call sign when out walking. It's returned by Sally and I know she's there waiting to see me. That's also a real boost as she can't do anything apart from wave and cheer but it's lovely to see her and I bound in to camp. Well it feels like bounding anyway!

As we gather for the evening Paul has his drop bag which has dried food in it for the remainder of the race rather than the heavier wet packs he's been carrying which in theory means his pack is now lighter than it has been so far. There's a lot of chat about pack weight and people have various strategies both for saving weight and for dealing with the thought of the weight which is just as important. For some it's important to have the lightest and for others it's to pack what you need and it weighs what it weighs. I'm somewhere in between I think - I'll find the lightest of each item I think I need, decide if I can afford it (usually not) then make a decision and move on. By chipping away at everything I manage to reduce the weight - I even cut the corners off the dried food packs, although this also stops them catching on the fabric in the bag - and then make peace with whatever I have to carry. Then train for it by running with a pack on as the race draws closer.

Another stage win, another 30 minutes added to the lead over Paul which is increasing slowly, Andy has now dropped back a little in third place. The wind has already dried my clothes on the makeshift washing line that's been erected, I'm showered and fed and I get an early night after my gin and tonic. The long day tomorrow.

This camp is at the base of Penygent and the views are lovely, the showers are warm and the food bag is a source of great joy for everyone. For some, however, the thought of the long day - at 61 miles and 9,000 feet of climb - is a sobering one but this is the stage that has got me out of bed every day training. It goes within a mile of my house (as the crow flies) and is a glorious celebration of the best of my home trails. I love it. We all have an earlier start because the stage is longer so it gives everyone a fair chance of finishing before the start of the next stage on day five - which will have a later start time as well. I can't remember who says it to me but apparently everyone thinks Paul will win tomorrow's stage because he's better at the long stuff. That's my motivational self talk sorted then.

Deadwater 2018 Day 2 - The Pennine Way

Day two has one of those moments in it that transforms everything. Last year this was the first stage I won and I dedicated the win to my dad who had passed away suddenly a month before the race. It was the first time I decided to throw off the shackles and think about just going for the win. This year is different, but we'll get to that.

The campsite we set off from in the morning is a different one to last year, and it will be different again in 2020, so the route down to Haltwhistle is different but straightforward. There's a bit of road, under a bridge, across a main road and then you're on a cycle route and it's steady away. It's tempting to look at the profile and think that it's flat all the way to Garrigil and then lumpy over Cross Fell and down to Dufton for the end of the stage. This would at first glance seem to be true however it's slightly uphill all the way, only slightly but still. The cycle route is lovely and is flanked by trees with a checkpoint part way along after you run across Lambley Viaduct. This has a path along the top and a massive gate at the end of it - last year I spent a good few minutes wondering how to get through the gate (or over it) before noticing the steps down to the right which lead you round, down, underneath and then back up the other side to continue on your way.

 Andy, Paul and I run together for this first section and it glides by. We aren't chattering away but there's a friendly ebb and flow of chat which helps to pass the time. Before Alston the trail joins a railway line and as we are running along here Andy slows to a stop. I ask if he's ok but he says he's just stopping to put his coat on - it's been a funny mix of not quite cold and wet enough for full coat but nearly for a while. I glance back as Paul and I run on and see Andy struggling with his waterproof and we don't see him again. Paul takes the lead and competitive John is trying to work out if he's pushing the pace or if I'm just feeling a bit sorry for myself. We're on the Pennine Way now and this is Paul's turf after a cracking Spine Race result in typically terrible Spine conditions a couple of years ago. At Garrigil we top up with water, Jonny the medic is there from last year and says hi before I dash off after Paul who has already left.

We start the climb to Cross Fell together, Paul holds a gate to wait for me on the diagonal off path climb up then stops to sort his bag but send me on. By the time we reach the path we are back together again. The Pennine Way here is a path but it's a path that's been covered with quite large stones - not big enough to be rocks and not small enough to be gravel. It;s probably quite nice to walk on, reassuring even, but to run on it's hard going. I'm ever so slightly dropping away from Paul now and we round a corner on the approach to Greg's Hut and he's got a gap. I look down and see my shoelace has come undone and when I look up Paul has disappeared off into the mist.

I take stock. I'm cold. I'm hungry. My shoelace is undone. I'm miserable. I can do something about the shoelace immediately so I stop and tie it properly. As I've stopped I can do something about being hungry and rearrange my food to see me through to the end of the stage. I also decide to have a handful of haribos to give me a boost and decide to do this every fifteen minutes from now on.  I'm cold - this could be a problem as I've now got on all the clothes I've allocated for running and all I've got left is my evening wear and my sleeping bag as options. I'll come back to that problem in a minute. I'm miserable - this is potentially the killer problem. I don't want to be here. I'm not enjoying this and I could quite happily sit down and cry for a little and then wait in Greg's Hut for a while and never run again. What am I doing here? What made me think this was a good idea? I can't catch Paul now so that's my lead gone and the race as well so I might as well give up now. This was a silly idea, I'm under trained and over ambitious. What an idiot.

I come back to being cold again which is something I need to address. I've been walking since tying my shoelace and now I've passed Greg's Hut and just about to reach the summit of Cross Fell when I see Lucy appear out of the mist on her way down to to Greg's Hut to offer support to runners if they need it.  I must look a sorry sight but wave and say hi. Then I lose the path - it should be flagstones but it's a mix of tricky rocks and mud. I check my trace and map and I'm parallel to where the path is but maybe over a bit to the left. Or a lot. I can't see more than a few feet in front of me because of the clag and now I'm lost as well. Brilliant.

I'm still cold so I have a sharp word with myself - there's really only one option. I need to move faster to generate more heat. I will my legs to turn over more quickly. I force myself to smile to trick my mind in to thinking I'm enjoying this. It seems to be working and my legs start to warm up. Then the path appears and I smile a genuine smile. It's quite up and down on the path over the tops and I start to pick up speed on the downhill, so much so that I start to run the uphills as well. I can see a walker up ahead in the mist and think about saying a cheery hello as I run past. As I get closer I realise it's Paul and he's walking slowly. Now what do I do? I check he's ok and he waves me on so I leg it. I do put a burst of speed on here as we hit the road for a short section before the final climb and I look behind me. Paul is some way back and not making any sign of following me so I crack on to the summit and then fly down the final descent. Which nearly ends with me wiping out near the bottom but thankfully I catch the slip in time. I laugh out loud and breeze in to Dufton with another five minutes gained on Paul and a big smile on my face.

What actually happened up there in the rain, mist and wind I'm not sure. One minute the world was over, I was never running again, the race had gone, the day had gone. After a bit of food and a hard word with myself everything transformed. Unbelievable. Maybe I do like running after all!

My post stage routine remains the same and I take the short walk to the showers before returning to get the kettle on. I speak to the medical team about my foot/leg which is aching a little in an unusual way and they advise me that pain is temporary and glory is forever. Apparently that's the bespoke medical support package. Which I take to mean there's nothing wrong with you, stop complaining we've got real injuries to deal with. Fiona retires here and I feel like I should be able to say something to help her but feel literally helpless. I don't know what to say at all when she tells me and mumble something incoherent. She's gutted and I'm gutted for her.

In camp people arrive and gather in different tents for the night. There's a drier been set up in a barn for people who want to get their clothes dry before the morning. It's effective but does make the clothes smell of diesel somewhat and as I'm crouched by the makeshift washing lines breathing in the fumes there's talk that camp opinion is split between who is going to win - Paul or me. I laugh and say there's a long way to go yet and there's only 15 minutes between us but it gets me thinking. This is a proper race now. We're definitely racing each other.

I share a tent with new people and in the morning Scott, who I lent my jacket to, pulls out and says he's booked holiday to Majorca for a week instead. Greg and Tim are telling funny stories and one of them revolves around the lightest bit of kit Tim has with him. It's perfect in almost every way for this race. It's lightweight and packs small but upon using it Tim has realised why it was in the back of his loft after not being used for a number of years. It's basically a pertex towel. Which Tim reports as being as useful as it sounds for drying yourself. There's a lesson here I'm sure about trying your kit before setting off but to be honest we all include things that aren't field tested to some extent and that's often where the fun lies! I have some lightweight beach flip flops for camp life which I wouldn't swap for anything but they were a bit of a gamble the first year. Other people had brought hotel flip flops made of soft fabric which were wonderfully soft. For one night. Before the great British summertime reduced them to a soggy, muddy mess and they ended up in a bin!

Thoughts about the day ahead were in my mind before I fell asleep - there's a big chunk of this stage that is new to me over Wild Boar Fell which we missed out last year. It's definitely a race now and it seems to be between Paul and me, although with a 60 mile stage still to come the day after where big time gaps could open up I am mindful not to go too hard too soon. How exciting. Except that Paul is fiercely competitive and relentlessly metronomic as a runner. I am in no doubt at all that not only will I have to run my best race to win but one slip and Paul will take full advantage. How exciting!

Deadwater 2018 Day 1 - The Forest

Breakfast is porridge in the van with my family - Sally is up with the boys and the kettle is on. Waking up in the cold and seeing cars needing ice scrapers was a bit of a shock and I had to strongly resist the temptation to abandon my planning and add in some extra layers. After I've eaten we all sort of mill around until it's time to get a lift to the start line. We are dropped by the Welcome to England/Welcome to Scotland signs which means a short walk to the start line. There are 18 of us this year toeing the line. I know Jo and Fiona from last year, Fiona was helping and Jo had to pull out through injury, and Paul is a friend of a friend who I've also chatted to at a couple of races before. My google research (we all do that right) turned up Paul as being the number one person to be race wary of but who knows and anyway I'm taking it easy.

In the build up I remember saying that I would take it easy this  year. No going off fast, no chasing anyone down, steady, steady, steady until I get a feel for the race. This is absolutely my plan. Steady. Really steady. At a conversational pace for stage one and probably stage two and three as well. With my recent training hiccups and back strains plus feeling not quite 100% only last week this is no time for pushing limits, that will come later in the race.

I really hardly know myself sometimes!

The course starts with a track along the old railway line then turns a couple of corners - it then runs through the campsite where we get a cheer from those gathered and into and around a forest trail that is mostly quality path for a number of miles. There are quite a few turns here and there to start with and it's only later on when it stretches out and becomes less windy and the decisions are fewer and further between.

After about half a mile Paul and I are chatting and someone cruises past us and runs off into the distance. Don't jump after him. Don't jump after him. Don't jump...

"Don't go off too fast too soon," Paul calls after me laughing as I jump up a gear and attempt to chase the flying runner down. The road winds round a few corners here and there and then enters a tree line, in and out. I can't see him so he must have got a larger gap than I thought so I dial up the pace so I can catch him and then run with him for a bit.

Still not there. Blimy he must be motoring, I'll just dial it up a bit more. After half an hour of gradually increasing the pace I get to the stage where to go any faster really would end my race early so keep it at a constant. At the first checkpoint I ask about other runners and that's when I realise I am leading, by accident as it happens as the runner who was ahead has taken a wrong turn and I passed him without knowing.

Now I am in something of a pickle. I've invested energy to get ahead so to drop back would be a waste. But now I have to manage my lead and hold on to something without knowing how fast anyone else is going and without exerting too much energy. . So much for a steady first day. Afterwards online I see some comments from friends saying how they thought I was going to take it easy but I must know what I'm doing - if only they knew!

Soon after checkpoint one the route leaves the lake and, after a quick right then left on a road,  enters the wide forest trails used for logging - these I remember well. Spectacular views and long, gradual climbs and descents are the order of the day for this mid section. It's not unpleasant but it's also a bit of a slog on some of these roads. Every now and then there will be a turn, clear on the map and clear on my trace, and then checkpoint 2 comes and goes. There's more of the same until checkpoint 3 which is just at the top of a sneaky little climb and close enough to the finish that there's only about 5 miles left. I haven't seen anyone for a while (all day) and I spend a little time chatting and thanking the checkpoint volunteers. I fill up with water and then have to make the only route choice available on this stage - straight on across (and down and up) a section of moorland or around on the road? I choose the road after thinking about it for a while - it's the easier option although I run it harder than perhaps I should because I can't escape the nagging feeling it's longer. Although I suspect I would think this of whichever option I took!

I negotiate the final road section and find the somewhat hidden path across a field that leads to the campsite and drop down with what will turn out to be a twelve minute lead over Paul and then a further minute back to Andy which is no time at all in a 235 mile race after only 31 miles. I didn't win this stage last year so that's a nice and unexpected bonus. Sally has driven round to the campsite despite not being able to do anything to help apart from speak to me and I change into my evening wear after a quick shower. This has become a staple of my post stage routine - get in, get out of the clothes I've run in quickly, wash myself and the clothes if needed, get dry and warm and then eat as soon as possible. My food is basically the same format but with different options each day. Breakfast is a dried meal with added water, as is tea, and during the actual running I eat things that I know have worked for me in races in the past with a couple of random things thrown in for good measure because I know that whatever I've chosen I'm unlikely to want. This works well for me and I've got a teabag or coffee each day and an emergency hot chocolate.

After I've eaten I will check the condition of my feet (always wise to eat first!) and my kit. I will then lay out my sleeping arrangements and put my feet up. I remember watching a program about the Tour de France which said that the cyclists adopt a particular mentality during the race. Don't stand when you can sit, don't sit when you can lie down, don't lie down when you can sleep. That may or may not be exactly what it was but that's what's stuck with me and I use it to full effect.

People drift in to the finish for the next couple of hours and settle in to sharing tents and sorting themselves out. This is our first night in camp and we chat the small talk of knackered strangers thrown together on an adventure. It's a lovely time. Jo shouts from the tent "Are they Spiderman leggings?" to me (they are) and after they've finished laughing and admiring (I think) my matching painted toenails (thanks to my daughter Maria, 19, for that) it's time to rest. I'm not the most sociably outgoing person in the world at the best of times and the close proximity of others voluntarily thrown together for an extended period is an interesting one. Truth be told on the first night most people are working out a rhythm that works for them so people drift in and out of conversations while sorting themselves out. This is true for competitors and race crew and director alike. Richard (RD) would go the extra mile for any of his runners and as soon as our day is over for him it's just the start of the next stage preparation.

I've kept my kit remarkable similar to the previous year - a roll mat, no pillow (used my rolled up fleece layer around my rucksack) but a new sleeping bag that is lighter and warmer. I snuggle down and get not un-comfy and drift off to sleep quite quickly wondering what tomorrow will bring.