Category: running

Zimbabwe 2025 (3): Shawasha Hills run, local market, one big party

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Saturday 8 March

Run around Shawasha Hills

Once again, Reece and I were up early to run before the day’s heat kicked in. His lovely friend Emma picked us up at 6:30 and drove us to a leafy car park 20 minutes from the house. We were heading into the Shawasha Hills, a rural area on the northeastern edge of Harare, to complete an 11km off-road loop.

We set off on a dirt track and were soon heading up a steady incline. I really noticed the thin air despite the relatively easy pace. Thankfully the stony trail and unfamiliar scenery, which consisted of distant ridges and diverse hillside shrubs, grasses and trees, kept me occupied. Being the FT (T meaning tourist) I stayed at the back, having decided that I was most expendable in the event of some kind of chase. Although slightly conscious of the numerous snakes, spiders, scorpions and other perilous wildlife I’d read about, I was heartened by the others’ lack of concern.

We backtracked once after missing a turn, then the narrow path became almost obscured by thick  bush. We hacked our way up, down and back up rough slopes at a slow jog while spines, thorns and seeds did their best to ravage our limbs. We failed to find another overgrown turn and bushwhacked our way, slowly and as the crow flies, up the second hill to a trig point, where we stopped to take in the view. A great patchwork of grassland, trees and maize fields sprawled across a low plain to the east, backed by undulating, bluish silhouettes of layered ridges. The view west was less aesthetic – a huge, terraced mine, presumably gold, had been carved into the hillside like a great, industrial scar. I turned my back to it and, as I had at Domboshava the evening before, drank in the vastness of the landscape.

We found a narrow path and continued down the south side of the hill, through more bush and down some steep sections made slippery by clayey soil. At the bottom we  came to a marsh and waded through ankle deep muddy water, our view obscured by taller-than-head-high grass. We emerged grinning, feet sodden, and picked up the pace along a track that cleaved a straight course between the swathes of endless grass, stopping briefly to watch a long-tailed widowbird (I think) land on a tall reed, its disproportionately long tail swooping elegantly after its little black body.

Swamp
A not-so-great photo of the widowbird – if only Iz were there…

The rest of the route was relatively flat and straightforward, apart from the sudden appearance of a stray dog from the grass (they can be aggressive) and a small river crossing. We passed a glassy lake that captured blue sky and fluffy, white clouds in a perfect reflection, and returned friendly “hellos” to occasional pedestrians. I wondered where they’d come from and where they were going, until I realised that little rustic buildings were dotted amid the grasses down subtle, red dirt paths. Given the hindrance of the earlier terrain, it was a relief to regain some time in the last few miles, although I struggled noticeably more than usual in the heat and altitude.

Blister prevention

We got back to Emma’s car covered in scratches and grass seeds, which stuck securely to our tacky skin. We picked up a couple of hitchhikers on the potholey road, dropped them at a garage at the edge of Harare and returned to the house. Emma left to rush to a christening and Reece and I took a much-needed shower. On reflection, I gave the run 10/10 for scenery, varied terrain and excitement.

Local market: snacks & a bushbaby

After a quick coffee, Reece, Iz, Tilman, Ryan and I hopped into the car and went off to Old Stables, the local Saturday morning market. Tens of gazebos filled a walled square, shaded by a handful of big trees with fern-like leaves. It was like an exotic version of an English farmer’s market, with stalls selling fruit, flowers, baskets, pottery, plants, clothes and hot food. We circumnavigated half of the busy square, pausing for Reece to buy (and try) cheese, then returned to the hot food area near the entrance.

The cheese connoisseur

While perusing the food stalls, we spotted a lady wearing a tiny bushbaby on her shoulder. Not wanting to accost her, we watched from a distance as she let someone pet it, but I took a small step in for a closer look and she started telling me – quite enthusiastically – all about its rescue from a bushfire and the carnage that can stem from cigarettes and barbecues. I returned her enthusiasm and before I knew it – to my delight – the bushbaby was on my shoulder, its enormous, conker-brown eyes shining like lamps. After a moment it sprang back to her in a surprising burst of propulsion and I thanked her profusely. Afterwards, Reece took great pleasure in telling me how they wee on their fingers to help them stick.

Elated

We whizzed round the other half of the market, stopping to buy fridge magnets and peaches, then shared some delicious chicken and pork gyozas at a shady table in the middle. Satisfied with our purchases, we went back to the house and spent a couple of hours cooling down at the bar (which always involved darts, dix-mille – a dice game – and a lot of laughing) while Shelley prepared food for the evening’s much-anticipated family party. As usual, I spent a while scouring the garden for wildlife.

Ryan’s “light snack”
Bitey Charlie
Tilman eyeing up the spread

Airport run for Gus & Dan

The five of us set off around 3pm to pick up Gus and Dan, the final British arrivals, from the airport. On the way there we got caught in a deluge like we’d never seen. Rain hammered relentlessly at the windows in a loud, angry torrent and  quick, brown rivers coalesced from nowhere at the edges of the roads. It was pleasingly dramatic, and thankfully only held us up by a few minutes.

Iz didn’t mind the rain

We sat in the airport bar and watched, bemused, as tens of people gathered at the window overlooking the runway. Something happened and they erupted in jubilant uproar. We assumed that a long-delayed plane had finally arrived, or perhaps a football team, but – on asking a barman – Reece confirmed that the event was nothing more than the landing of a common-or-garden Kenyan Airlines plane. The excitement was short-lived and the crowd quickly dissipated as we sat and drank our beers, baffled.

Shortly afterwards we spotted Gus and Dan from above, negotiating their way through passport control. Dan clearly did a better job of this as she sailed through and collected their luggage, while Gus stood for a suspiciously long time at the kiosk, at one point – to our concern – slapping his hand down on the desk. Thankfully they were both allowed into the country and we met them with joy, delighted to have finally assembled the fellowship.

The rain had completely cleared on our journey back to the house, as if nothing had ever happened. Gus and Dan were shown to their room, then – as family had already started arriving – thrown headfirst into the party.

The Party

I won’t and can’t recall much of the party that evening, but can share that everyone had a really great time. I’ll list a few highlights, instead: meeting a lot of very lovely people, Shelley’s stellar table spread, Paul’s diligent bartending, at least five dogs, Gus and Dan diving into the pool (fully clothed), Dan dancing on a stool (sunglasses on), darts, Ryan with Uncle Kieran on his shoulders, arm wrestling Kieran (who didn’t win) and Luca (who would have if he’d tried), dancing with a clawful of Cheeky Chilli crisps, Bryn and Kieran’s Birkenstock cheek-slap contest and an awful lot more dancing to DJ Shelley’s excellent music.

The claw

My lesson of the day: Zimbabwe is the best kind of wild.

71 Miles Later: Great Glen Ultra

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This was the hardest day of my life. It started at 9pm on Friday on a coach full of ultrarunners.

*After-note: I didn’t intend this to be a long post, but the flashbacks returned as I wrote. At least it reflects the slow-drip torture of a 71-mile run…*

The journey from Inverness to Fort William took nearly three hours and I didn’t get a minute of sleep thanks to conversations about running and Scotland (two things that keep me sane), pre-run excitement and a beautiful sunset over Loch Ness. At FW we bundled into a village hall where I did the registration admin, faffed about and attempted to sleep behind the stage curtain. Again I was unsuccessful, this time due to the unforgivingly cold, hard floor, blasé babble of seasoned runners and absurd consciousness of the strangers laying around me.

During the race brief I noted that the average age of the headtorch and buff-clad runners was probably about 50. After last year’s 50-miler this didn’t fill me with confidence – as far as ultrarunning is concerned, age seems to be a virtue. We shuffled our way into the cool, black Highland air and started the run at 1am.

Mile 0-7: Canal, boredom

I thought that darkness, excitement and running in a big pack would make the first part fly by. I was wrong. This section went along a long stretch of canal, which meant that it was flat, even and monotonous – my worst nightmare. I wasn’t used to running that slowly (about 10-10.5mins/mile), my legs felt heavy, I couldn’t shake off heartburn, my right calf felt tight already and I was conscious of every footstep around me. The only scenery was the heels of the runners in front of me, lit by my headtorch as I chased my own shadow.

Mile 7-11: Trail, the only fun I had that day

The route crossed the canal and thankfully took me along an enjoyable section of rooty forest singletrack. I paced myself on the person in front of me and focused on the twisty, undulating path through trees and ferns, trying not to be too jealous of a group of bemused, beer-drinking, fire-poking lochside campers. The first checkpoint was a bit further on than I expected, and I grabbed my first dropbag without stopping. Jelly snake number one perked me up a little. Heartburn persisted.

Mile 11-20: Gravel, pain

I was acutely aware that I’d already been in pain for a while, mainly in my right calf but also general discomfort everywhere else from padding along the boringly samey surface. This section was a long drag along wide, pine forest-lined gravel tracks which rollercoastered up and down along the north bank of imaginatively named Loch Lochy, whose still, black water crept into view below high braes as the sun made its reluctant way up. Heartburn persisted.

Mile 20-27: Forest, regret

At checkpoint two I grabbed my drop bag and carried on, fuelled by a second jelly snake and a pocketful of nuts and dried fruit. My memory of this section is a bit hazy, I just remember hating everything. I think the path changed from gravel to muddyish dirt to road to hilly forest track. Heartburn was overtaken by general pain.

Mile 27-32: Lochs, hopelessness

I remember the miles before checkpoint three vividly. A flat, straight gravel section that ran along Laggan Lochs and Loch Oich and stretched endlessly into the distance. As a trailrunner who loves uneven terrain and doesn’t want to be able to see more than a few feet in front at a time, I hated every step and every breath. Given how I felt, the thought of making even 40 miles was hopeless. The runners had strung out a long way apart by this point, and I didn’t see another person for a long, long time.

After what felt like forever I reached checkpoint three. I was glad for the company and the snacks, but the midges were relentless, every part of my legs hurt already and I was grumpy.

Mile 32-54: Mountains, under-appreciation

I stopped shortly after checkpoint three to plaster a blister that I’d ignored for way too long, which had all but destroyed a little toe. Blisters became my biggest issue, which was frustrating as they didn’t bother me at all during last year’s 50-miler, and although superficial they’re debilitatingly painful. I checked my distance way too often and tried to block out the pain of every step.

These long miles along “the high road” were unenjoyable and kind of blurry in my memory, so I’m definitely not doing the scenery justice. I think this was the most varied, wild and beautiful bit, but I’ve never appreciated such a stunning place less. The trail became undulating and twisty, through lush green forest, hillside heathland overlooking vast Loch Ness with its mountainous backdroup, more green forest, and past the golden fields of huge, sprawling farms.

I was pleased to make 50 miles, given how much I was struggling, and at checkpoint 6 I thought about how I could throw in the towel satisfied in the knowledge that I’d run further than ever before. But I could still walk, so I knew that I couldn’t live with myself if I gave up, and I limped along a few miles of Drumnadrochit pavement towards what would be the hardest few hours of my life to date.

Miles 54-62: Forest, torture

The road out of the town was long, straight and boring, and even a jelly snake did little to lift my spirits. Then came the woods and the hallucinations. The sun shone patchily through the tall, dark pines and I think the woods were beautiful, but everything was eerily still. Shadows moved around in my peripheral vision, and I saw all kinds of animals. I’ve never properly hallucinated before and I was amazed at how real they were – at one point I was totally convinced there was a baby hare on the path, which turned out to be a bramble, and I saw lions, bears, dogs… etc. I decided that if a forest demon came to snatch me away, I’d be glad for it as I could stop running.

The steep, pine-wooded section turned into a long, undulating few miles of gravel track edged by dense firs and desolate heathland. Painfully conscious that I still had ten miles to go, I tried singing to myself in a desperate attempt to conquer the suffocating feeling of loneliness, futility and despair. I passed a murky, black pond and had to tell myself that the white, bloated face I saw in it (a la Lord of the Rings, Two Towers, the dead marshes) wasn’t real. That was the least “cool” hallucination.

Miles 62-66: More forest, more torture

A lot more agony later and I limped into checkpoint six, grateful (for once) for human interaction, a bag of soggy nuts and my final jelly snake. The midges were out in full force so I didn’t hang around, and I left for the final and most agonisingly painful few miles of my life.

Shortly after the checkpoint the path took me through a dense, low tunnel of trees and past the creepiest café I’ve ever seen. It was tucked away and signposted with eerily bright, scruffy, handmade signs – despite the pain I had to stop and take a picture:

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Then there was a road section that went on and on, surrounded by countryside which seemed very desolate under the dark grey sky. The race organisers had kindly spray-painted “the never-ending forest” on the road to inform distraught runners that the worst was yet to come. Eventually it did, and road turned into heathery moorland, which turned gradually into tall, dark, dense pine forest.

Miles 66-71: Despair

These were the worst few hours of my life, despite passing a red deer and a red squirrel with a blonde tail (I have blurry photo evidence). I slowed to a walk because my hip flexors had become so tight and painful that they rebelled and refused to let me lift my legs, my feet were on fire, my joints felt shot to pieces and every muscle in my legs had all but seized up. For most of the race my pace was okay, until it wasn’t. By this point I probably averaged 18-20 minutes/mile.

My phone died along with my love for life, although I didn’t regret saving my last scrap of battery for a photo of a squirrel over a potentially life-saving phone call. I checked my Garmin obsessively and experienced something entirely new and unexpected – tears of hopelessness, desperation and agony streamed down my face.

The trees thickened and closed in on me in a crushingly dark, straight tunnel. Then came the creepiest hallucination yet: a tall, slim man in a grey suit with a Donnie Darko-esque rabbit’s head at about mile 68, who turned out to be a tree. I’ve never moved so agonisingly slowly in my life, or felt more helpless.

I genuinely considered collapsing and waiting for someone to find me, and thought that if I died first I’d be happy that I put in 100% and the pain would stop. Then I felt light-headed, sick and dizzy, wondered if I was going into shock, and dug around in my bag for my emergency energy gel. I couldn’t find it (later on I found it easily) so stuffed a handful of salted cashews and dried fruit into my mouth and forced myself to carry on.

I don’t know how I got through that forest, but after what felt like a lifetime I dragged myself out and found myself overlooking Inverness. The Proclaimers were playing right next to the stadium at the finish line (where the bus left from the previous night) and I could hear them. Encouraged, I carried on and descended unbelievably slowly to the town, resisting the urge to beg the 70-something year old runner who jogged past me for help.

I’ve never been so relieved to see concrete and tarmac, but was soon devastated by the realisation that the finish was still a mile away. I peeled off shoes, socks and (inadvertently) skin and shuffled into the flipflops I’d been carrying since Drumnadrochit. Garmin died. Another runner caught me up and I could see the pity in his eyes as he stopped and talked to me as I shuffled along the pavement, inch by inch. I dramatically insisted that he leave me, and as he went off a pedestrian actually offered to get his car and drive me to the finish line – that’s how near-death I looked (and felt).

I think some more runners passed me but I can’t really remember, and eventually the last one caught me up, accompanied by the two “sweepers” appointed to run with the last runner. One sweeper stayed with me as I shuffled along pavement, hedge-lined path and along the final, impossibly painful section of straight, flat, boring canal, while the other overtook.

After yet another lifetime we reached the stadium. I was relieved beyond words, in unbearable pain and incredibly embarrassed by all the people waiting to cheer the last runner round the three-quarter lap of the running track – compulsory and something to do with Scottish ultra rules. Somehow I made it round, moving like someone who’d never walked before and fuelled by desperation for the embarrassment and the pain to stop, and stumbled agonisingly over the finish line. In last place.

I’m probably the most competitive person on the planet (thanks to my wind-up merchant of a father) and I didn’t even care. I’d felt such extreme pain, frustration, hopelessness, desperation, loneliness and exhaustion that I was just numb; I felt a vague sense of happiness and relief, but I was too physically, mentally and emotionally tired to really feel anything.

Conclusion

This couldn’t have been more different from last year’s 50-mile Peak District ultra. The terrain was more even, less undulating and less twisty. The weather was overwhelmingly grey, unpleasantly humid and occasionally drizzly. I didn’t really make friends to run with – last year I was convinced that was what got me over the finish line. I’ve never seen so few people over such a long distance or felt such crushing loneliness. There were fewer checkpoints, lots of dark forest, hideously long, straight flat sections and the infamous Scottish midges. I got blisters quite quickly, whereas last year I somehow avoided them. Running always come with peaks and troughs, but the peaks made up 5% of the race and the troughs 95%. Basically, every aspect of the race was shit. Apart from the jelly snakes.

Yet somehow I don’t think it’ll be the last race in my remarkably un-illustrious ultrarunning career.

Ultramarathon Two

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My impulsive personality has got the better of me again. Last year I blagged my way through an ultramarathon, intending to push myself to breaking point. I pretty much did, but the fact that I made it over the finish line has been nagging at me since. I figured that if I was still limping along after 50 miles, I’d failed. So yesterday I googled ultramarathons in Scotland (my favourite place) and signed up to another one.

I tried to reason with myself. I hurt my knee last time (well I hurt everything, but my left knee was worst), couldn’t walk for a few days and couldn’t run for a fair while. I lost toenails, skin and blood.

I was incredibly lucky to complete the run, and I’m almost certain I wouldn’t have if it wasn’t for the lovely, supportive, experienced runners that I happened to befriend on the way. Somehow I didn’t get blisters, thigh chafe, shin splints or lost, despite having brand new, untested and unbroken in shoes, and conditions were perfect – clear, dry and not too warm.

In short, I owe that day’s success to a multitude of tiny little factors that came together to see me over the finish line. It was like the stars aligned and some higher power steered every detail in just the right direction, forgiving me for my sins and charging me with some kind of divine debt (an afterthought – I have a lot of praying to do).

Which is why I feel okay about this next run – like last time, and I’m not just saying it, I don’t expect to finish. I’m fairly fit for an average person, but I’m not super fit. I haven’t trained. 50 miles is the furthest distance I’ve ever run, 15 miles is the second furthest. Having zero expectations is the best way to approach pretty much everything, so I’m happy to cross the start line knowing that if I collapse after 20 miles, it’s okay.

The run (I’m not using the word “race” as that suggests competition, and there’s no way my ability comes even close to that of the second least capable entrant) is 71 miles long, along offroad trails from Fort William on the west coast of the Scottish Highlands to Inverness on Scotland’s east coast. I have 22 hours to complete it unsupported (ie. with no help), it starts at 1am on Saturday 6th July, and the name “Great Glen Ultra” suggests there’s a fair amount of “up”.

My plan is to turn up, enjoy the scenery and see how far I get. If I make 20 miles I’ll be content, 30 miles I’ll be happy, 50 miles I’ll be elated and 71 miles I’ll be being carried (alive or otherwise).

Really it’s just an excuse to go back to the Highlands.

My Latest Scheme: 5k-a-day

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It’s been two months since my ultramarathon and I’m bored. I haven’t really been running due to injury – first there was the post-ultra knee problem, which seemed to clear itself up (mostly) so I ran a half marathon. Then I’m 99.999% certain I cracked a rib playing rugby – moving/breathing heavily hurt for a couple of weeks, so I returned to wallowing in self pity. So being a bit twitchy and even more restless than usual, today I decided to start a new mini-challenge: I want to run 5k a day, indefinitely.

Having somehow completed the 50mile (80km) ultra, 5k feels like a silly little distance. However, I’m working on convincing myself that it’s a nice distance because it’s so manageable. It only takes 25 minutes (or that’s the target, at least..!) so it’s not really a chore and it fits easily in at any time of day.

Also, it gives my “fitness regime” (sounds WAY more impressive than it is) some kind of structure; I’ve always liked the thought of being a planner, but when it comes to actually planning stuff it turns out I’m naturally more of a “turn up and wing it” kind of person. I go to the gym fairly often, but I’m a bit scrappy – I might go five times one week and not at all the next, and I haven’t followed a plan since doing less weights work and more cardio. Same with running.

So by forcing a set distance within a set timeframe upon myself, I hope to ease myself into some kind of routine. I’d also like to get better at running and by doing 5k regularly I hope to see tangible results in a) the time, and b) the effort that it takes.

I say 5k a day, but if I miss a day (I have been afflicted by the occasional hangover in the past) I won’t beat myself up as long as I make 35k each week, and I’ll definitely accommodate longer runs too. Believe it or not I intend to do more ultramarathons…

The other major motivation behind this idea is that I’d like to get others out running too, and 5k is a good starting distance. Running with other people helps massively with motivation and is a fun (I promise) social activity, plus it helps keep your friends healthy, alive and – in my case – less neglected (there are lots of people I don’t see nearly as often as I’d like!).

So if anyone would like to join me for any 5k excursions I’d be delighted with the company, and I’m happy to travel about to try different routes. If you slow me down I’ll be glad to go at your pace – I get sick of beating myself up, and all that really matters is getting the miles in. If I slow you down please feel free to run off and get a pint in ready for me at the end… a cold cider will rarely go amiss 😉

Today’s run… 5k number one

A (very) Brief Post-Ultra Update

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Having neglected my blog for a couple of weeks, I’ll give a very quick post-ultra update.  From the point of view of a restless, sport-loving, thrill-seeking person, injury is the most frustrating thing in the world. The inability to do the things you love is agonising and the thought that your performance will nosedive is unbearable.

I’m not supposed to run. Since my ultramarathon on 25th August my left knee has been playing up; I felt it about 30 miles in, so ignored it for another 20 miles as it gradually worsened and now I’m suffering. I could barely straighten it or bear weight for about three days afterwards and it’s been improving slowly since – I can walk normally and run for a bit on it now, but it still doesn’t feel quite right.

The doctor thinks I’ve just aggravated the bottom of my hamstring (apparently it’s fairly “normal”) and physio discovered that I may have ruptured a (non-essential) ligament in that knee from a previous injury. So it’s probably just a tiny niggle, but limiting my activity for the past few weeks has been hugely frustrating (especially having to miss rugby matches) as I’ve been told to rest.

In other news, I’ve been keeping very busy – lots of job hunting, trips away, socialising and blog-neglecting. I’ll get back on it this week, and I want to make some more videos too! Time to focus…

12 Things Nobody tells you about your First Ultramarathon

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Having rabbited on about how amazing it was, I’ve decided to write about the not-so-savoury things that I learnt from my first ultra. Without further ado…

1. You’ll be walking like a slug for a while.

Not only because they’re slow, but because slugs don’t walk. You’ll cross the finish line and sit down, basking in the warm glow of glory, until you attempt to travel anywhere on foot. At that point you’ll realise that your leg muscles have relinquished themselves from your control and refuse to do as you ask, having been subjected to long hours of trauma over unforgiving ground. They’ll send you electricity-bolts of pain for trying to force them to move, so cancel your plans for a week and plan toilet trips half an hour in advance.

2. Injury is likely.

Your legs absorb the impact of every step, your feet and ankles twist and balance as you move over uneven ground, and you’ll probably fall over at some point(s). Combine this with the way the silly distance affects your mental focus and the chances of injury are sky-high. I’ve done something to my left knee which has prevented me walking properly for a week, and it wasn’t during a specific moment – the pain built up gradually after about mile 30. (I’m seeing physio tonight, fingers crossed..!)

3. Pain is absolutely inevitable.

Even if you don’t pick up a diagnosable injury, everything will hurt. My muscles, joints, bones and skin were so sore towards the end that I barely noticed individual niggles, which was probably a godsend. If everything hurts, you can’t get hung up about any specific piece of pain; by the time you’ve noticed the ache in your hip, you’ll have got distracted by the blister on your ankle.

4. You might cry.

I mean I didn’t, but I’m a stone-hearted beast and emotions were definitely heightened. About 40 miles in I was nearly overwhelmed at the thought of phoning my parents to tell them I’d completed it, and at the finish I was so full of emotions that perhaps they cancelled each other out, like the pain. Other people cried though, and it was fine.

5. Your toenails can turn a surprising shade of blue (and might fall off).

Miles and miles of descent will probably see your toes hitting the front of your shoes, causing some sciencey thing to mean they can turn anything from lilac to black and possibly fall off. It’s only affected my big toes, but the nails are raised, tender and a delicate “Indigo Grey” (thanks Dulux). I thought they were going to fall off as they initially seemed to have loosened, but they’re a bit better now… I’m observing them with interest. Can give updates on request.

6. Hallucinations are normal.

Well, the concept of hallucinating a long way into a long, horrible run is normal. It’s not normal to see jellyfish in the middle of the Peak District or leeches appear on your skin, as I did. I was lucky – others have seen dead people and imaginary finish lines. Endurance running really does do funny things to your head.

7. You will peak, trough and repeat for the whole race.

Not just in terms of elevation… You’ll feel great for a mile, then you’ll crash and think the end is nigh. Then you’ll power through and feel great again, and so on… Someone told me about this on the day and it was amazingly true – I felt it throughout the entire 50 miles. So all you have to do is push through the troughs.

8. Cramp is debilitating.

Like bolts of hatred sent up through the ground by the devil. It hits you unexpectedly, goes away with a rub and some isotonic drink, then keeps threatening to come back. It’ll show you muscles you didn’t even know you had.

9. Chafing can destroy you (and scar).

I was lucky not to get hit by the notorious thigh-chafe (I don’t know how) but I had a tub of vaseline in my pack just in case. The very same pack I’d bought a couple of days  before – it was absolutely perfect apart from slight chafing on my shoulder, back and collarbone… Which looks like it’ll scar. Battle wounds, right? Also, man-friends – watch your nipples.

10. You’ll hate climbs. Then descents. Then climbs.

The universally accepted strategy behind ultras is to walk uphill (or the worst parts, at least) to conserve energy. After miles of pounding along trails, you kind of look forward to slowing down for the ascents. Once you’ve been going up for a while, or for the entire time up super-steep, rocky ascents (which are absolute killers, by the way – much worse than running), you’ll look forward to just propelling yourself forwards, rather than forwards and upwards. Soon enough you’ll hate descents again, when your knees threaten to buckle and your toes feel ready to fall off. Also, realise that a steep, rocky descent is seriously tough on your body and takes a lot of concentration.

11. It’s so easy to get lost.

Huge distances, samey-looking surroundings and mental fatigue all ramp up your chances of getting lost. Not every turn can be signposted and you may lose sight of other runners, so it’s worth being able to navigate well.

12. “Mentally tough” doesn’t cover it.

You already know it’s a mental game as much as, if not more than, physical. But it’s mental on more than one “plane”; you have to ignore your body screaming at you to stop and remain focused enough to navigate, eat/drink and not break an ankle. Moving quickly over uneven terrain takes a huge amount of concentration. You have milliseconds to decide which rock to land on and have to repeat that decision every. Single. Step. You also have to read a map on the move, and remembering to have a snack or a sip of water can be difficult – after a few hours time gets warped and you forget when you last ate or drank.

Despite all this, you’ll love every minute of it (with hindsight). I’m hooked and I can’t wait to run again, once my knee is better… You can read about my first ultramarathon here. Good luck, if I’ve put you off trying an ultra you probably shouldn’t have entered anyway… 😉

Some chafe marks from my pack… Not pretty
“Indigo grey”
I have a feeling that’ll scar…
Dirty work – these were brand new

Fifty Miles Later

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Disbelief, relief, pain, gratitude, liberation, pride and pure, unbounded elation. I’m not a “crier” but I wasn’t too far off on Saturday as I stumbled across the finish line, too exhausted to resist this flood of emotion . Fortunately I was too tired and/or shocked to do anything but collapse into a chair and babble on about nothing.

Before the ultramarathon I’d never run more than 15.54 miles or climbed more than 259m elevation in one run. It’s not that I’m lazy – having signed up drunk in April I developed shin splints within a week, having run too much too soon (remarkably they didn’t resurface at all during the race, perhaps thanks to compression socks, or the fact that everything hurt anyway). I was also on antibiotics for a mysterious infection and spent most of the previous night being snotty (<4hrs sleep is not ideal). Needless to say I didn’t fancy my chances of completing 25 miles, let alone the full 50, along with 2,600m of the Peak District’s finest elevation – roughly equivalent to two Ben Nevises. I’d never even completed a proper trail run – I was used to pavement-pounding and had never worn off-road running shoes in my life.

So everything seemed to be against me. But a miracle happened and I completed  the 50-mile ultramarathon in a relatively respectable (for a clueless and ridiculously unprepared first timer) time of 11 hours 20 minutes. I came 10th in the race and 4th in my age category. The winner completed it in 10hrs 2mins and the last person finished in 16 hrs 16mins, so if you look at it that way I was towards the front; some runners didn’t finish at all. Considering that I was ecstatic to have even completed the race, the fact that I wasn’t even close to being the last person in absolutely blew my mind.

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Rushing to get to the 0540 brief (I was late)

0-10miles

The run started at 6am. Everything went smoothly for a while; the pace was slow, there were lots of runners so no chance of getting lost, and the golden-blue sky was clear as the sun rose over Sheffield, nestled behind the heather-covered moors of Houndkirk and Burbage. I “made friends” just before checkpoint 1, then took on Stanage Edge – a long, picturesque stretch that would have been harder if I hadn’t been concentrating on hopping from rock to rock without breaking an ankle.

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Burbage South, bright and early

10-20miles

I overtook my new friends briefly on a downhill forest section and rejoined them at checkpoint 5, the first bag dropoff and cutoff time checkpoint. I was amazed to have got there in a couple of hours, despite the cutoff allowing 4hrs 30mins. Next up was more rockhopping at High Neb, then I was lulled into a false sense of security on the descent past Bamford to checkpoint 7. I called Bertie, my support crew, to tell him I was (amazingly) still going and could meet him for a top-up of frogspawn drink (Iskiate) at checkpoint 11.

20-21miles

Then I hit Win Hill. It sounds innocuous enough and means nothing if you’ve never climbed it. We’d recently been joined by the tens of runners doing the 30-mile ultra, and I’d picked up an “Aussie Bite” snack from checkpoint 7 – big mistake. As I entered the woods I found myself in a long, gasping line of people (literally) dragging themselves up a  super-steep, super rocky and often slippery “path” that seemed to go on and on and on. I can’t imagine anyone in the world actually running up a section like that – every step I took felt like I had a lead weight tied to each foot, and I passed several people who had stopped to rest. Then I found out that an Aussie Bite is, while delicious, probably the crumbliest snack that ever existed and totally unsuitable for eating while breathing heavily on an ascent. You can’t chew, swallow and/or breathe through your mouth simultaneously. Nevertheless, a miracle happened and I made it to the trig point without stopping, choking or collapsing in a whimpering heap.

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“Out of the woods”

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Win Hill summit

21-28miles

Running again. Fast forward about two minutes and my calves started cramping. I thought my time had come. I gave them a quick rub and downed an isotonic carb gel that I’d grabbed as a last-minute “experiment” from Go Outdoors. The pain subsided and came back intermittently, but I’d rejoined my previous group and talking to them helped a lot as we ran across the stunning, open moorland of Hope Brink and Crookstone Hill. On any other day I’d marvel at the way the sun warmed the deep  purple, bright green and pale gold hillsides blanketed by heather, ferns and rough grass, but I realised that was not this day as I pounded along narrow, rocky, ankle-breaker paths. My legs felt weak and I really thought I’d have to stop soon. A steep, uneven and knee-jarringly tough descent preceded checkpoint 11 at Edale, which was also bag dropoff 2 with a cutoff time of 9hrs 20mins. Amazingly I’d made it in  around six hours. Bertie was too late to meet me – he arrived a couple of hours later!

28-38miles

Handfuls of pasta, lucozade, crisps, haribo and energy bar later, I paired up with a lovely 50-mile runner  who spurred me on throughout the rest of the race. He waited for me as I dragged my lead-legs up more nasty ascents, ran with me along the flat and downhill sections, stopped me going the wrong way a handful of times and was lovely to talk to. We headed through Castleton (a pretty town which I was too tired to appreciate fully), out to Old Moor and down to Bradwell, where we stopped at checkpoint 15 – which was also bag dropoff 3 with a cutoff time of 14hrs 30mins. Incredibly we’d made it in less than 8 hours; I was amazed – I’d put my headtorch in my dropbag just in case I’d have to carry on in the dark, but it wasn’t yet 2pm! After a 20min rest, a drink of pepsi and handfuls of snacks we felt rejuvenated and carried on.

38-48miles

My knee hurt. Bradwell Hill was horrible. The descent to Brough was horrible. The path to Hathersage was pretty, but long and horrible. Hathersage Moor was stunning but horrible and I would almost certainly have got lost alone. Somehow we mustered the strength to run up, across and down the long, gravelly tracks of Houndkirk Moor, even overtaking another runner (it was horrible). I stuck behind my friend, focusing on his shoes and not looking ahead at where the track met the horizon. Horrible.

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Burbage South again, less perky this time… But still smiling

48-50miles

At the last checkpoint – number 19 – I noticed that my shoelace was undone, but didn’t care enough to do it up. Endurance running does funny things to you – I thought I saw a jellyfish by the side of the path. I thought I had a leech on my leg, only to realise it was a bit of flappy skin from a cut. Despite mutual exhaustion, my friend and I both felt the lure of the finishline less than two miles away and managed what felt like a sprint along a track, through the woods and towards the farm at Whirlow. I barely heard the cheers as I stumbled across the finish line, didn’t see the cameras, and don’t remember who shook my hand or gave me a medal.

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Elation

As delighted as I am that I had the fitness, strength and willpower to finish, I cannot stress how incredibly lucky I was. Everything that could have gone wrong went in my favour:

1. Weather: Perfect – dry, clear and not too warm – mid to late teens, I think. This meant that I didn’t get too hot or cold, wasn’t beaten up by wind or rain and didn’t have slippery, muddy ground to contend with.

2. Equipment: The shoes and hydration pack that arrived on the doorstep two days before (yes, a huge gamble) fit perfectly and performed even better than I could have hoped. My brand new (purchased on the journey) camelback bladder didn’t leak and kept me hydrated.

3. Food and water: I had no idea what to eat or drink, how much or when, but I made it and I wasn’t sick so I must have got something right.

4. People: I’d expected to run alone, listening to music or an audiobook. I thought my luck had failed me early on when I couldn’t get my phone to pair with my Bluetooth headphones, but this meant that instead of being antisocial I ended up talking to – and sticking to the pace of – other runners. This helped hugely, as conversation really took my mind off the exertion of running and the worry of slowing others down motivated me to keep my pace up. Also, the runners I befriended had previously done recce trips so they knew the way – I would almost have certainly got lost if I’d navigated alone. Everyone we saw out on the trails gave way to us, and there were so many kind words of encouragement from walkers and spectators that if I wasn’t so tired I would have been overwhelmed.

I mean it when I say it was horrible, but there’s more to it than that. It’s a “nice” kind of horrible. I can only compare it to “nice” pain – like the ache in your muscles after a good workout, or the pressure of a firm massage. I was drugged by a dizzying mix of exercise-induced endorphins, event-induced adrenaline and trauma-induced pain signals. My left knee had been getting more and more painful for about twenty miles (and I still can’t straighten it or walk properly, five days later) and my legs felt like lead-filled jelly, but I couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off my face. Looking back at the photos, it’s there in all of them.

Before the race I didn’t expect to make half way, but the people I was with were so positive and encouraging. They were surprised at how young I was to be doing an ultra and they seemed to have such (unwarranted) faith in me – even before the 25-mile mark – that even I started to believe that I could finish, despite my legs telling me otherwise. These people had put up with my annoying little voice and inexplicable perma-grin for more miles than I could count and I didn’t want to let them down by pulling out. They’ll probably never read this, but thank you to everyone I ran with – especially Helen, Paul, Danny and Dave. And to everyone who supported me, sent me encouraging texts and told me (affectionately) that I’m an idiot – I appreciated every message. Also well done and thank you to every single runner out there at the weekend, I don’t think I’ve ever seen such positivity, resilience and kindness among a group of so-called “competitors”.

To conclude, of all the things I’ve achieved, this is what I’m most proud of. Twenty years in education, half-decent grades and the occasional academic award seem insignificant compared to jumping from 15 to 50 miles in a day. I’ve never pushed through such acute pain or such a burning desire to stop, and the best thing of all is that I believe I had more in me. In fact I know I had more in me, because I was still running at the end. I entered the race hoping to find out my own limits and see how far I could push myself, but this experience has taught me that they’re much further away than I realised. So I’ll just have to try harder… I’m hooked and I can’t wait till next time, whatever “next time” is.

 

Endnote – I got a new phone last week, discovered an automatic app called Clips and made some videos following my (lack of) preparation, journey to the Peak District, and the ultra itself. These were loads of fun to make so I think I’ll do more in the future – I’ve put them on my brand spanking new Youtube channel CuriousGnome, feel free to laugh at my face… I’m going to write a separate post on tips for a first ultra and some kit reviews, so bear with! Well done for getting through this, I know it’s a long post – you’re pretty much an “endurance reader” now. Love you.

 

 

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Pre-Ultra: Don’t Underestimate how Unprepared I am

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T-minus four days. This time on Saturday I might be a) a few hours into my first ever ultramarathon (least likely), b) dead already (more likely), or c) lost, broken and crying in a ditch (most likely).

If I could run a mile for every time I’ve been told “you’re a f****** idiot”, Saturday would be a walk in the park. I genuinely appreciate these comments because they ease the pressure of expectation: if anyone actually thinks I’m fit enough to run even half an ultra, I’d probably spiral into despair at the hopelessness of attempting to avoid disappointment. The very last thing I want to hear is “you can do it”.

 

Injury

The bottom line is that I’ve never run more than about 15 miles. After drunkenly signing up in April (after reading one book about running and realising I can run a half-marathon) I overtrained and developed shin splints within a week, crushing all hope of building up to 50 miles (80km). The shin splints are much better but not totally healed – I still get the odd twinge, so come Saturday my legs will be held together with KT tape and compression socks.

 

Illness

As if I wasn’t doomed enough, two lymph nodes have decided to swell up under my left arm, making it painful to sleep, get dressed and move my arm away from my body. The same thing happened last December and I recovered, but not without a lot of pain and discomfort. I’ve actually been organised enough to contact my doctor via an online form, so I should know my likely prognosis by the end of today – but unless I die before Saturday I have every intention of at least crossing the starting line, high on painkillers if necessary.

 

Preparation and Equipment (*lack of)

Despite half-decent academic grades and marginally-above-average fitness levels, I’m an extremely useless adult. I make ridiculous decisions, refuse to go back on them, then take a way-too-laid-back approach to resolving the issues I create for myself. For example, last week I ordered my hydration pack for the event. Yesterday I ordered my first ever pair of trail running shoes. I hope they fit. Today I googled “how to prepare for an ultramarathon”. The results of that search suggest that I should have done so about six months ago (before I even signed up… hmm). At some point this week I’ll go shopping for some food, blister plasters and so on. I’ll probably even write a list.

 

Event Requirements

As if 50 miles wasn’t unachievable enough in itself, this 50 miles is in the self-descriptive Peak District. It encompasses 2,600 metres of ascent – that’s the same as two Ben Nevises – along rough terrain. AND it’s not exactly signposted – on top of putting one foot in front of the other and staying fed and watered, I’ll have to navigate. I don’t have a GPS watch so it’ll be a map and compass job, and while I’ve done plenty of navigating in the past I’ve also got lost (a lot). There’s also a list of mandatory kit, which includes full body cover, a headtorch, a whistle, food, water, etc, and electronic checkpoints to eliminate cheating. AND some checkpoints have strict cut-off times, so it’s not like I can plod along and finish the course in October. In all honestly I’ll be thrilled to make the first one – which is four and a half hours in.

 
Attitude

Despite everything, I’m absolutely buzzing. I’m going in with the expectation that I’ll manage a few miles before having to be collected in a whimpering heap, hating the world and renouncing exercise as an unnecessary evil. I expect to be the least fit, least prepared and least experienced entrant, which suits me as I feel no pressure to achieve a certain time or distance. Despite usually being super-competitive, this time I’m happy to be totally self-centred: all I care about is what I can do, regardless of the super-athletes I’ll be surrounded by (at the start, at least), and I don’t care what anyone else thinks. I’m simultaneously playing mad scientist and hapless guinea pig in a cruel experiment – I’ve never really pushed myself mentally or physically, so I’m interested to find out where my breaking point is and if I can reach it on my own.

Apart from the running bit, it sounds like a great weekend. As a “festival [of running]” there’ll be outdoorsey people, stunning scenery, camping, food and shenanigans, and I’ve never done anything like it. I can’t wait; I’ll be the one stumbling in to the party, clueless, uninvited and incapable of keeping up with the others, but keen as muck – probably having forgotten half my mandatory kit, semi-dressed with shoelaces untied and shorts on inside out, grinning like a Cheshire cat. So please keep the “f****** idiot” comments coming, pray for me on Saturday, and definitely don’t expect great things!

Ultra Training Update: Week 15.5

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An addictive personality is like Voldemort, as described by Mr Ollivander: “terrible, but great”. Falling for running, cycling, climbing and so on will make you fitter, healthier and more focused. But falling too hard will leave you injured, frustrated and restless.

I’m blessed and plagued with a tendency to throw myself into things blindfolded and headfirst, without self-control, moderation or any kind of plan. An idea gets into my head and I get tunnel vision: all my energy goes into performing or achieving that idea, at the expense of everything else.

For example, I read a book about running. Got inspired, went for a run and didn’t stop until I’d done a half marathon and was late to an appointment. Got drunk that night and entered an ultramarathon. Sobered up and started training. Ran 40 miles in less than a week and got shin splints. Had to stop running for 2 months. Am still suffering, but finally back running – today I ran my second ever 13.1 mile (21.1k) half-marathon.

I’m interested to find out how far I can push myself because today’s run felt great. I set out intending to do 10k or so (about 6 miles) but felt so good that I just carried on. I’ve been “easing myself back in” for a few weeks, squeezing in a handful of 5-12k runs, and wanted to start running properly. Initially I thought I’d have to cut it short today as my shins started to ache despite copious amounts of KT tape, but (and some physio somewhere will tell me off) it subsided so I didn’t stop.

I actually felt stronger after an hour; my form improved and I got quicker. This is despite my decision to weave my way around, up and down St Catherine’s Hill on the edge of the South Downs, along rocky paths, up mega-steep sections and through walls of brambles (coming out the other side grinning and bloody-kneed).

I stopped at half-marathon distance because my feet started to ache and I didn’t want to get injured again, so maybe I am learning. I did it in 1hr 52mins 48secs, so it wasn’t fast but I’ll have to get even slower. Fitness-wise I felt fresh as a daisy and I actually wanted to keep running, so I think it’ll be my feet/legs that let me down first when it comes to the ultra.

So I’ve never run more than 13.1 miles and in three and a half weeks I’m supposed to run 50. Have I pulled out of the ultra? No way. Do I think I’m going to complete it? No way. I know that I’m not physically capable of running that distance – I’ve barely trained, I’m still recovering from injury and I’ve never done anything even close. But I’ve accepted that and I have nothing to lose, so I’ll run, walk and hobble for as long as I possibly can.

I won’t be disappointed if I make 20 miles, and I’ll be delighted to make 26.2 – marathon distance. I know I’ll look like an idiot next to the seasoned ultramarathoners (at the start, anyway!) but that doesn’t bother me; as far as I’m concerned, I’ll be the only person in the Peak District. This is the beginning – one day I’ll be eating 50-milers for breakfast.

In the meantime, I believe I have a hydration pack, blister plasters, vaseline and some trail shoes to buy…

See also The Accidental Half Marathon, Ultra Training Update: Week 1, Too Much Too Soon, Ultra Training Update: Week 4.5

Parkrun #1 (and why you should try it)

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I thought I was relatively fit until this morning. I haven’t ran for 5-6 weeks due to injury (see Too Much Too Soon) and my leg was okay tramping round the Brecon Beacons last weekend, so I figured it’s time to get back to Ultramarathon training. I headed down to Winchester Parkrun for 9am, expecting a casual 5k bimble alongside gentle, chatting joggers enjoying a spot of exercise before coffee and brunch.

That was a misconception. There were easily 400ish people milling around in parkrun t-shirts, running club vests and colourful sports kit, talking, grinning and looking (almost uncannily) delighted to be there. I asked a marshall how it works and he explained that everyone will set off together, run around the fields a couple of times and collect a token at the finish line that gets scanned with the barcode I’d printed out at home. A nice, straightforward setup.

After a speech and a few rounds of applause (John’s 100th parkrun, welcome Bruce from Sydney etc) a whistle went and the colourful mass swarmed off. There were pacers in orange high vis vests; on my own I’d usually do 5k in about 25mins, so I thought I’d push it and stick as close to the 23min pacer as possible.

Having not run for a while, I felt so good at first that I sped off like a gazelle (or so I thought), overtaking lots of people – including Mr 23mins. I had a lovely time for about a mile, then I realised I’d been way too optimistic. My legs started feeling heavy, I started getting overtaken and couldn’t settle my breathing into a steady rhythm. Exactly what I deserved for flying off at an unprecedented pace on my first run back from injury, and as usual I knew I only had myself to blame. I felt less gazelle, more moose.

Mr 23mins glided past me as I sweated and puffed away, wondering why on earth I ever thought taking up running was a good idea. The next mile dragged, and it only started getting easier as I turned the final corner towards the finish line. Annoyingly I’ve often found that it takes a few miles before I can get into a rhythm, so the run was practically over by the time my breathing started to settle. I crossed the finish line, collected my token and stretched my leg (which barely twinged!) among the still-grinning, sweaty, colourful finishers.

My Nike Run app says I did 5.5k in 23:55, averaging a pace of 4:21 per km. That’s 5k in 21:52, which I’m pleased with, and it would explain why I struggled, given that I usually stick to a fairly relaxed 5min/km. That made me feel better. Parkrun’s results say I was the 11th female out of 153 and 1st in my age group, which gave me another boost. But given the tens of people ahead of me I’m still not quite happy, so I’ll be squeezing some training in alongside exams and assignments (which I should be doing instead of writing this) – and I’ll definitely be back!

It was extremely well organised and the volunteer support was incredible. The marshalls were really positive and helpful, the token system ran smoothly despite the huge volume of runners and I was e-mailed and texted with my results within a couple of hours. It made me realise just how fortunate I am to be able to take part in such a community-led, efficiently organised and fitness-oriented… event? thing? phenomenon?… for free.

What struck me most was that despite the incredible diversity – small children, grandparents, teenagers, pram-pushers, dog-draggers, lean, muscly, round, tall, tiny, black, white, two-legged, one-legged, no-legged – everyone wore huge, ear-to-ear, idiot grins (including me, I realised at the end). I heard countless words of encouragement, cheers from onlookers and just a little bit of friendly competition – not a hint of hostility.

It was a lovely feeling, being amidst this huge, supportive community. Having experienced my first taste of parkrun, I’d urge anyone – and I mean literally anyone, no matter how unfit you think you are – to get up on Saturday morning and give it a go. I get the feeling that running is just a part of it.