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 Jaunt in Jersey

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On Saturday, like all the greatest rugby players, Southampton’s ladies hopped on a flight to fulfil their fixture. I was as excited as a dog in a cattery; I hadn’t played rugby for two months, hadn’t flown for five years and I’d never been to Jersey before.

We flew from Southampton, arriving mid-morning and walking the short distance to Jersey Reds rugby club. The weather was lovely – mid-teens and sunny, clear blue skies – and the club facilities were much posher than we’re used to. We kicked off at midday and played a tough, close game of rugby; we were 14-12 down at half time and it could have gone either way, but a really solid team performance saw us triumph 22-14 as the final whistle went.

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Having made the mistake of wearing silky, billowey, vibrant red trousers with a Turkish carpet-type pattern on the plane while everyone else wore trackies, I downed a pint for “fanny of the field” and my condition deteriorated steadily from there. The next twelve hours saw us taxied to our hotel in the island’s capital, St Helier, dressed up (American theme, I was a double-denim clad cowgirl), fed, very well watered (all alcoholic) and messy; we held a tour court, made lots of friends and otherwise “bonded”. At various points I found myself submerged in a swimming pool, a jacuzzi, a water fountain and a (group) bath – I’ll spare the details.

On Sunday I woke around 6.30am and climbed out of the bed I’d crawled into about three hours before, keen to explore. I stumbled out of my teammate’s hotel room and into my own (long and innocent story), pulled on any old clothes and headed out, free map from reception in hand.

St Helier wasn’t what I expected. To me, the style and layout of the streets felt much more French than English; the buildings were mostly quite new, smart and at least three stories high, and the roads were straight and very clean. There were a handful of independent newsagent-type shops open, rather than small chain supermarkets like in England, but otherwise most places were closed. I remember the area  around the harbour having a clean, modern, upbeat feel on Saturday night, but come Sunday morning the streets were eerily quiet.

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It took about 15 minutes to walk from the Mayfair hotel to the beach, and when I got there the view was lovely. The early morning sun was rising over St Helier’s C-shaped bay, glistening on the calm water and warming the sand. Four strikingly symmetrical tower blocks framed the south east of the city, silhouetted by the low sun, and jagged rocks jutted out of the sea as if challenging boats to get into the bay. I walked out to the end of the pier, impressed by the big bathing pool structure, and admired the view.

A couple of hours later I had explored a bit more, breakfasted, packed and met my sluggish friends. With some time to kill before getting the coach to the airport, a few of us headed back to the bathing pool and I braved a swim in the flat, fresh, salty water, wearing my now infamous silky trousers. It was cool (cold) but really refreshing. I swam around for a while and only stopped because my ribs were hurting (rugby) and my un-elasticated trousers started to rip, then shivered my way back to the hotel.

The coach picked us up and took us along the south coast towards the airport, on the west of the island. What I saw of the rest of St Helier looked clean and new, and the long, golden, sandy beaches were amazingly quiet given the clear blue waters, cloudless skies and warm sun. There’s an interesting looking castle and fort that can be walked out to at low tide, and I learnt from Saturday’s taxi driver that Jersey has one of the largest tidal ranges in the world. Looking out to sea, the clear, pale blue water looked shallow for a long way out, and the shores were guarded by jagged, dark rocks. This, combined with the pale pavements and  numerous palm trees, gave the place a really Mediterranean feel.

We went through the pretty, older-looking coastal town of St Aubin and, as we had plenty of time before our flight, our driver gave us a little tour south to Noirmont point. He parked the coach and let us out for ten minutes, after which time I think everyone was sold on Jersey. We could have been in Greece; the headland overlooked a clear, azure blue bay, skirted by reddish-brown granite cliffs topped by lush, green shrubbery, yellow gorse and purple heather. I scrambled down the grippy rock to get some photos, a little bit gutted that I wasn’t there to climb.

That was about as much of Jersey as I saw; the bus journey back to the airport was unremarkable – the buildings were new and clean and there were lots of palm trees. I learnt a lot about the island from talking to various people. They have £1 notes, and the watermark on their notes is a Jersey cow. You have to have lived there for something like 10 years before you can buy property, you need special work permits and the cost of living is similar to London. The  island is only 9 miles long and 5 miles wide, with a population of just 100,000. It has its own financial and legal systems, funny tax rules, and it’s about 15 miles from France and 85 miles from England. It has its own language, which is barely used, and lots of wartime history. Apparently it’s great for surfing (along the west) and climbing.

Overall, Jersey was totally different to what I expected. I thought it’d feel like the Isle of Wight – really just an extension of England – but it felt like a totally different country. We weren’t there for long and I didn’t get the chance to run around the island like I’d hoped (my ribs were too sore) so I only saw a small part of it, but I’d recommend a visit. I’d like to come back to climb, surf and explore the coast more…

Watching the World Burn: Science vs Politics

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I’m rarely one for politically charged blog posts but today I can’t resist.

A quick bit of (very basic) background info, feel free to skim over this:

[Carbon emissions cause global warming (thus climate change) by trapping heat from the Sun inside Earth’s atmosphere.

Under the 2015 Paris Agreement, 195 countries set the objective of ensuring the increase in average global temperature does not exceed 2°C – ideally 1.5°C – above pre-industrial levels. Pre-industrial is not defined, but probably refers to the mid-18th to early-19th century.

Last week the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change reported that we are likely to exceed the 1.5° limit within three to ten years, and we’re on track for a 3° increase by 2100. A 1.5° rise would cause devastating extreme weather events, habitat destruction, mass extinctions, food insecurity, poor crop yields, increased poverty levels, slow economic growth, unprecedented refugee crises, etc etc, which would be exponentially worse at 3°.]

That’s the science; now for the politics.

It’s pretty clear that immediate action must be taken to slash our carbon emissions, and even reverse the damage we’ve already caused by pulling carbon out of the atmosphere (which can be done).

Or I thought it was pretty clear. I’ve just watched Donald Trump claw, scrabble and grunt his way through an interview by denying that human activity has impacted on climate change. When challenged about the innumerable scientific reports detailing how we’re devastating the planet, he blamed the “political agenda” of scientists.

I could wear my fingers down to the knuckles writing about that man’s ignorance, incompetence and utter disillusionment. I’d love to know more about what would motivate almost every scientist worldwide to have the same political agenda, and how the correlation between industrialisation and unprecedented global warming is entirely coincidental. Unfortunately he doesn’t seem able to expand on those points.

No more about Trump, or my fingers might punch through the keyboard.

Today I read an article about how UK climate minister Claire Perry is refusing to advocate a lower-meat diet because she likes her steak and chips. Scientific evidence shows that the agricultural industry has an enormous (like really, shockingly big) carbon footprint, and that by reducing our demand for meat we can contribute massively to cutting emissions. (Watch Cowspiracy on Netflix for more info.)

I’ll reiterate – our climate minister – will not encourage people to change a small, inconsequential aspect of their lifestyle because it “is not the government’s job to advise on a climate-friendly diet”.

I mean, it’s not like issuing advice would be an easy and unintrusive way to educate people as to how they can better protect the planet. And as if it would also serve to reduce the number of health complications caused by diets high in saturated fat, thus the strain on the NHS… Ridiculous!

Hope you detected the sarcasm. There is no reason for the government to refuse to advise people to reduce meat consumption; it’s not like they’d be introducing quotas or bans. They seem perfectly happy prescribing advice, restrictions and taxes on alcohol, cigarettes and sugar – so if not the government’s job, whose is it?

I’ve used two examples but I’m certain there are many others, and I won’t keep you all day. The point is, it’s not just Trump; denial, blunt refusal to change, lack of accountability and willingness to turn a blind eye is rife everywhere, and I – along with the unsung heroes of our time, the powerless environment scientists – am tearing my hair out in frustration, despair and incredulity. Al Gore hit the nail on the head when he called his 2006 documentary film An Inconvenient Truth – please, please, please watch it, I think it should be mandatory viewing for everyone.

We’re moving way too slowly. It’s time for politicians to open their ears, take their noses out of their purses and look up at the world, ideally before it’s burnt to a cinder.

New Forest Bike Ride, September 2018

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When my outdoorsey friend from North Wales visited my humble little corner of England last month, I promised to show him the New Forest (National Park – absolutely not an innuendo). I figured the best way to do this was on bikes, so I fixed Rocky’s puncture and chain-lubed him up.

We met at Stoney Cross Car Park and headed West. I hadn’t planned a route, I just thought we’d go with the flow; naturally, after riding along roads, through trees and across grassy openings, we managed to end up in what is probably the least suitable part of the Forest for mountain biking and/or showing friends around: the Netley Marsh/Totton urban sprawl.

I have nothing against the area, but I’d wanted to show Mike  the New Forest in all its glory: heather-covered moors grazed by rugged ponies and edged by dark treelines. Purple-brown heaths, rippling golden grasses, trees every shade of green and open skies bathed in the translucent lilac-blue-gold of late summer sun. Netley Marsh/Totton was strikingly grey. And it rained.

Apologetically, I attempted to lead us back into the Forest and was unsuccessful for a while. However, we stumbled across a pump track at Totton which (in my opinion) made the detour worthwhile. I’d never been to one before but it was lots of fun – a couple of loops around and my heart rate was up, my arms were burning and I was grinning stupidly. It was sketchy at times, when I misjudged when to pedal and scraped the tarmac “humps”, but fortunately Rocky and I left in two complete pieces.  It turns out the track cost £43k and only opened a couple of months before. [See the GoPro footage from the pump track]

Playtime complete, we rode out of the urban sprawl back towards the Forest via Ashurst, travelling south through woods and across open heathland. This was more what I’d hoped for; I couldn’t call it mountain biking (especially not to Mike, hailing from Snowdonia) as the terrain was quite easy-going and there was nothing particularly steep. The most difficult part was the narrow section where the high, tufty “kerbs” on either side of the track meant I could only pedal in half-rotations, but at least I’d shown my friend some of the “actual” New Forest.

We went through Denny Lodge and stopped for a drink at the Mailmans Arms in Lyndhurst, then rode back towards the car park via Emery Down. The roads seemed long, and it was hard work having cycled a fair way on mountain bikes and empty stomachs. We cycled 40km in total; back at the van, I apologised for being such a terrible tour guide and promised I’d do a better job of showcasing the New Forest next time.

In the future I think I’ll show my “guests” the north west of the Forest, rather than the central east. I went for a lovely ride out Linwood/Mockbeggar/Fritham way  back in April, so maybe that’ll be my destination of choice… I’ve heard tell of a mountain bike centre in the south west, around Avon, so that’s on the cards for a future day out. In the mean time, I’ll work on my tour guide skills, and maybe I’ll prepare an actual route next time…

Endnote: Mike didn’t seem too disappointed  – we explored Corfe Castle afterwards and went climbing at Dancing Ledge in Dorset the next morning, so I think I made up for it!

Surf Perranporth: Like Newquay but Better

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For many people (“townies”, as my mum would say), Newquay is the only place that exists west of Plymouth and THE place to go surfing. While the surf on the North Cornwall coast is arguably the best in England, Newquay beaches included, due to the town’s reputation it can be logistical nightmare.

Go down on a sunny day, peak season, and parking is impossible and/or bank-breaking. The roads are full of kids, wannabe surfers and other things you shouldn’t run over. Drinks are too expensive, there’s litter everywhere, the sea is full of idiots and the evenings are full of late-teens throwing up alcopops.

That said, it depends what you’re after – I sound like an ancient woman but I’m guilty of throwing up alcopops on occasion, and Newquay is Cornwall’s [slightly trashy] tourist party central. With regards to surfing, arrive early enough and you should be okay to park and grab a small slice of beach space, although be aware that the masses will descend.

When I took a few friends on a spontaneous trip in August we went for the primary purpose of surfing  (drinking just kind of happened). Having surfed in Newquay before, I wanted to avoid the carnage and try somewhere new so we went to Perranporth, about 8 miles southwest of Newquay.

Perranporth beach is long, wide, sandy and edged by highly explorable rockpools, caves, dunes and grassy areas.  The surf is good and there are surf-only, lifeguarded areas, as well as swim/bodyboard areas. When we went the surf was decent, with 4-5ft waves spaced fairly nicely and breaking a fair way out.

The colourful little town has a lively (if touristy) buzz to it and there are plenty of shops, surf hire places, cafes and pubs/bars, although understandably not as many as Newquay (and they aren’t as trashy). We hired decent foam surf boards from Piran Surf for just £6/day, which is way cheaper than anywhere I’d been in Newquay, and food and drinks were priced fairly – use Tripadvisor to find the sort of thing you’re after. There are public loos at the Watering Hole bar/restaurant at the back of the beach and in the town. We arrived early and parked for just £5.50/day (free overnight) in Droskyn car park, which overlooks the beach and is a pleasant 10min walk from the town centre.

Overall, Perranporth is a buzzing little town with equal surf, more reasonable prices and fewer people than Newquay. It does get busy on a sunny day so get there early to ensure you get a parking spot and a bit of space on the beach (although people tend to stick to the town end – there’ll be loads of space if you’re willing to walk a little way). The flagged surfing areas are popular, although much less so than Newquay, and not so much so that you can’t surf. You can get away from surfing outside of the flags if you go to the left of the big  “Chapel Rock Pool” Island-type rock at the South end of the beach.

So my overall advice – if surfing is your priority, pick Perranporth over Newquay. If you’re out to get messy-drunk, regret getting laid or be a general public nuisance, go partay in Newquay. And please be nice to the locals, they dislike us enough as it is.

Read about my trip here – Spontaneous Surf Trip, Perranporth, August ’18

Our debut album cover

Endnote: I write this following on from my recent trip – don’t rule out other beaches!

Spontaneous Surf Trip, Perranporth, August ’18

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Bored of being home for five days straight, I roped some friends into a spontaneous surfing trip. We left Winchester on Friday evening and stopped for dinner on the way, not arriving in Perranporth on the North Cornwall coast until the early hours of Saturday. We were fortunate enough to discover Droskyn car park, which had plenty of space and grassy areas where my friends could (naughtily) pitch their tents.

 

First light on Saturday morning revealed how lucky we were to have found that car park. I looked out of the van window over the long, wide expanse of sand, backed by picturesque cliffs and flanked by the open sea on one side and the colourful little town on the other. There were public loos by the car park (which were unlocked shortly after we got up) and it only cost £5.50 to park all day – much cheaper than elsewhere. A quick tip if you go – get there early as although there were just a handful of cars/vans there overnight (no charge), it got busy during the day.

 

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The view from Droskyn car park

 

We walked down the hill into the town (about 10mins), had breakfast at a little café and found surf boards to hire for £6/day at Piran Surf – much cheaper than anywhere I’d been in Newquay. A 10-min walk to the water and we were splashing around in no time, attempting to surf like the bunch of idiots we always have been and always will be.

 

Bertie brought his own board, although it had been neglected for a long time – I liked its small size but it needed a clean and a sex-wax-up as it was frustratingly slippery. The 8ft foam boards we’d hired were really good (for beginners!) as they were buoyant, grippy and stable, if cumbersome. I reluctantly followed everyone’s advice and wore a wetsuit, which with hindsight I definitely don’t regret.

 

The waves were 4-5ft and spaced fairly nicely, although sometimes they all came at once and then not at all. We all improved as the day went on; I just regret not having a board mount for the GoPro (the adhesive takes 24hrs or so to stick), as the footage from my wrist strap isn’t the best. I did plenty of standing up and surfing around (not into) people – promise!

 

After a full day surfing (except a short break for an obligatory pasty) we hit the pub for dinner and ended up playing pool and making friends in The Deck, an “interesting” bar (I later found out we probably should have gone to the Watering Hole, but that can happen next time). A few too many ciders later and I was “assisted” up the hill to bed.

 

We woke on Sunday to heavy heads and a beach shrouded in sea fog. We met our Cornish friend for breakfast and hired boards again, then messed around on the beach waiting for the fog to clear. Just as Simon, Matt and Bruce were about to give up and go home, the veil lifted and the lifeguards opened the sea. We surfed at the North then the South end of the beach, eventually and reluctantly deciding that we should head home.

 

Our debut album cover
Waiting for the fog to clear

 

I’d recommend Perranporth over Newquay any day, so much so that I wrote a blog post on it – read it here. Overall, I had a great weekend in a lovely place with decent company. Note to self for next time : swallow less a) seawater, and b) cider.

 

Cheddar Gorge in a Day

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Spontaneous trips rarely disappoint. A couple of weeks ago my friend Simon went to Somerset to have a high-top roof added to his VW camper. He asked the previous evening if I fancied a day trip and naturally I did, so I was up and heading West at 6am.

We dropped the van off a few miles from Weston Super Mare and walked half an hour to the nearest village, Banwell. I was vaguely aware that the town of Cheddar (I’ll try and avoid cheesy jokes) was nearby and that Cheddar Gorge was supposed to be an interesting landform, so I told the bus driver to take us there.

Cheddar village is pretty and clearly very touristy, with its plethora of shops and cafes. It’s a short and attractive walk from the gorge itself, its limestone walls towering dramatically above the buildings on three sides. The vast rock faces are interspersed with plenty of lush greenery, and the place has a rugged, isolated feel, like it could be a village nestled away in the Alps.

We had breakfast and did a bit of work in the Costa (Si’s choice) opposite Lion Rock, a distinctive hump of rock at the gorge end of the village. Admittedly it was the most picturesque Costa I’ve ever been in. With no plan to do anything specific, we wandered along the road to Gough’s Cave, a 115m deep, 3.4km long cave system. Si insisted on paying for us both to go in, so we bumbled in like stereotypical backpack-wearing tourists and made use of the free audioguides.

The cave system is really impressive, with its huge, high chambers, sci-fi-esque rock formations and dimly lit, glassy pools (I suspect they’re man-made…). The audioguide is interesting if you’re a huge geek like me, particularly the bits about how the rocks are formed and David Lafferty’s “underground endurance” world record – he stayed in the cave for 130 days in 1966. And I thought I sulked.

Chamber in Gough’s Cave
Stalactites and stalagmites

Gough’s cave took about 45minutes, after which time we were hungry already. We had a nice ploughman’s lunch in Café Gorge a couple of minutes down the road, then walked back towards the village to climb Jacob’s Ladder – the 274-step strong stairway up to the gorge walk along the top of the cliff.

Fast forward up the stairs and along the rocky, uphill route towards the top of the gorge, the path opened out onto a rugged landscape of dramatic, dark grey rock faces and thriving trees, shrubs and grasses. Behind us to the West was the comparatively flat landscape of Somerset, with its green fields, lines of dark trees and red-roofed villages, and we could see for miles out to Bristol Channel.

We strayed off the path towards the jutting out “fingers” of rock that towered above Cheddar. As I got to the edge of one I was taken by surprise at just how high and steep it was – I was surrounded by sheer, vertigo-inducing drops on three sides and I could see down to the winding road way below as cars scooted along like tiny, colourful insects. I found a climbing bolt up there, so I must do some research…

A few cringe-worthy selfies later and we headed back down the way we came, delighted to have made the journey to the gorge. I’d never seen a view quite like it before. After the 274 steps down we indulged in an ice cream before venturing into Cox’s Cave, which they’ve turned into the “Dreamhunters” experience.

This was an intriguing, bizarre and more than a little creepy walk-through video “tour” that left me convinced there were some funny mushrooms in my ploughman’s. Projected videos and a slightly eerie, slightly sexual (as Simon decided) voice told the story of the cavemen who used to live there. Combined with dim, multi-coloured lights and hanging fur “doors”, this was a highly trippy experience in a place that I think would be put to better use as an avant-garde restaurant or nightclub.

Van roof nearly installed, we headed back down the gorge to the village centre, tried some cheese samples, nosed around an outdoorsy shop and and grabbed a drink in a café before hopping on the bus back to Banwell.

Overall, Cheddar Gorge was way more impressive and unique than I expected. I’d recommend a visit, although at £20 per adult I think the tickets to Gough’s Cave, Cox’s Cave and Jacob’s Ladder are overpriced. You can access the gorge walk for free from other directions and this was the part most worth seeing.

I’ll go back and explore the area more thoroughly another time as it’s just a couple of hours away from Winchester. In the meantime I’ll do some research into climbing those big limestone faces…

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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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