Tag: running

Zimbabwe 2025 (6): Chilli & Chill in Harare

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Tuesday 11 March

Morning run

This was set to be a fairly relaxed day, given yesterday’s big excursion to Imire game reserve, and given that the tattoo session we thought Reece had booked for today was actually tomorrow. At 8am I headed out for a 5km run around the block with Reece, Gus and Dan. We took the same route as Reece and I had done on our first morning in Harare, along quiet roads through leafy suburbs.

We passed large houses with leafy walled gardens, clusters of ramshackle stalls selling fruit and textiles, children in smart school uniforms and a few randomly scattered maize fields.  Again I noticed how the elevation and temperature sapped our energy and left us puffing; as per the previous run, we returned to the house hot and more than a little relieved to stop.

Iz, Tilman and Ryan met us around the big table in the outdoor bar, looking annoyingly bright-eyed and bushy. We chatted over coffee and toast, jibed Reece for mixing up the dates (in good faith – he’d assumed the burden of planning the whole trip) and discussed logistics: the people carrier we’d borrowed from Kieran had gone into the garage for a brake fault Reece had discovered on Sunday and we needed to collect it, but not before we’d had an exclusive tour of the family chilli sauce factory (so exclusive that there are no photos).

Gus post-run

Chilli sauce factory tour

We hopped into the Landcruiser and Reece drove us to an industrial block about 20 minutes away. We found Paul in the company office and, after a few family introductions/reintroductions (we’d lost track of who we’d met at Saturday night’s party), we shuffled over to a bustling warehouse, where – over the din – Paul talked us through the process of manufacturing chilli sauce. It was an efficient operation and a sensory overload: hot, noisy and busy, and the air had a spicy tang that made me want to sneeze. Tens of workers bustled and chatted around machinery, conveyor belts and vats, moving quickly and doing all sorts of semi-fathomable jobs. It was interesting to see the process, from dried chillis in huge sacks to neat bottles churning out of a labelling machine and stacks of laden, shop-ready crates, and to hear about the transition from generators to solar energy.

Driving in Harare

The tour concluded and we stepped outside into air that seemed newly cool and calm. We walked across the industrial compound to a garage, where we found Kieran’s car. It needed a driver and I’d already volunteered, in a moment of foolishness or bravery, to return it to the house while Reece drove the Landcruiser. Paul, bemused, handed me the keys, chuckled something about “wait till Kieran hears a chick drove his bus”, and offered to reverse it for me. I hoped that my dismissive eye roll hid my nerves about Harare’s treacherous roads.

To my relief I executed a perfect manoeuvre out of the compound and followed the Landcruiser onto the street. Ryan, Iz and Tilman proved a supportive crew as I navigated the city’s lawless traffic, sticking closer to Reece’s bumper than I’d usually dare – we couldn’t afford to lose them as none of us had phone signal for directions. I actually enjoyed the freedom of driving without British etiquette, and found that other drivers seemed to accept pushiness without any sign of irritation. It was hectic but surprisingly straightforward, and it helped that the automatic people-carrier felt just like my beloved old Mazda Bongo.

We returned to the house around 11:30, unscathed, and hung around the bar for a while, playing darts and watching Charlie the bitey parrot destroy an empty beer can. At 1pm the seven of us split between two Landcruisers and headed out for lunch with Shelley.

Lunch at Beach House

Beach House is a stylish, tropical-themed restaurant situated in the middle of Borrowdale racecourse. The sky threatened rain, so we crossed a footbridge over a moat to a thatch-roofed seating area and settled at a long table. As we talked and waited for our food, I watched colourful little birds – red bishops and yellow masked weavers – singing and darting around the bushes and grasses surrounding our island. The food was worth the wait: I had bread, chicken liver stew, chips, onion rings, a bao bun and some of the best sushi I’ve ever tasted, washed down with lavender gin. We left very full, very satisfied and a little chilled by a breeze that had blown in.

Red bishop

Chilled afternoon/evening

On the way back we stopped at a liquour store to stock up for our upcoming four-day boat trip on Lake Kariba, then returned to the house for darts and dix-mille. After a while I became a bit restless, so donned my swimming costume, goggles and hat (to everyone’s amusement) and did some laps of the pool. This agitated Roxy the terrier, who proceeded to chase me around the edge, and it turned into a game of race the dog – she beat me at lengths (just) but widths made her furious. Eventually I gave in, not wanting to damage Roxy, and we reconciled.

Shortly afterwards Paul emerged from the house with a black BB gun and we took turns shooting metal pellets at  empty beer cans stacked across the pool, with mixed success. Once we’d filled the garden with metal, we returned to the bar and the usual games resumed, lasting most of the evening. In between games Shelley produced a lovely selection of crackers, cheese and cold meats and we sat around enjoying each others’ company, feeling very at home.

The famous swim cap

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.

Aberdeen

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May 2019

I missed Scotland and as I was working up north anyway, I took advantage of cheap flights from Manchester to Aberdeen. I fell in love with the country a couple of years ago and as a climbing friend recently moved there, I hoped to squeeze a climb in.

I spent Friday exploring all the corners of Aberdeen on foot, running (a very slow) 20km round the city. The buildings are made of dark grey granite blocks, which make everything seem very dull on a cloudy day but glisten prettily in the sun. Shiny new cars sit outside rows of houses lining the leafy streets, which have a clean, homely feel, and regular shops and eateries give the place a pleasant, quiet bustle.

One long, wide street seems to form the heart of the city, lined with everything from posh Thai restaurants to Wetherspoons to high street stores to haberdashers. Four lanes of cars and a constant stream of pedestrians give it a buzzing atmosphere, livelier than that of the suburbs, but somehow it doesn’t really feel like a city. Grand old buildings shoulder smart, modern ones, there are lots of churches, and I was never worryingly far from a pub.

Just a few minutes from the centre are the docks, boasting a rich history and filled with all sorts of boats. A long (extremely long if you’re running) sandy beach stretches along the east coast, punctuated by groynes, seabirds and the occasional surfer. I stopped at an estuary nature reserve at the northern end in the hope of seeing gannets or skuas, then headed back via Old Aberdeen through the pretty, cobbled streets of the university.

I ran back through the bustling streets looking the most Scottish I’ve ever looked – wearing black, white and blue, with a box of oats (staple snack) from Aldi tucked under one arm. Aberdeen successfully explored, I ended that day rigorously assessing a selection of the city’s pubs (variable types, would recommend most), making pub friends and as far as I can remember, having a lovely time.

Favourite fact: “Aberdeen” comes from the Gaelic “Aber”, meaning river confluence, and an amalgamation of “Dee” and “Don”, the two rivers that meet the sea there. Thanks to my geeky habit of reading all the info boards.

Verdict on Aberdeen: 9/10. Would have been 10/10 if I’d seen gannets and skuas.

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.

5k-a-day Update: Not Compatible with Rugby

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Last month I devised and wrote about my latest scheme – I planned to run 5k every day. I stuck to the plan for a week and a half, running 5k some days, not at all on others and up to 15k to make up for missed days. But just as I was getting into the swing of it, rugby struck.

Two weeks ago I was half-carried off the pitch in the last two minutes of a game in Dorchester with a poorly leg/foot. I’m not sure what happened but my boot ended up a few metres away from me; ironically, the week before I’d teased a friend about being so silly as to wear his rugby boots so loose that they could come off mid-game. So under sod’s law I suppose it was my fault, but I offloaded the ball as I went down and the winger scored a try so it wasn’t in vain. (We won 68-0 FYI, I’m glad you asked.)

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This means that I haven’t been running for two weeks. Our lovely physio thinks that I’ve ruptured a tendon , which isn’t too bad as apparently I have enough other bits of leg to compensate for it.  It bruised up pretty nicely, my big toenails finally came off (post-August ultramarathon..!) and my right foot isn’t quite right still, but it was strapped up tight and back on the pitch a week later so I think I’ll live.

That’s the problem with rugby… sometimes it messes up other plans, which – for a restless-to-the-point-of-twitchy person like me –  is frustrating at best and heartbreaking at worst.

I’ll try and restart my daily 5k plans from this week, foot-dependent, and get back in the gym… I’ve been terrible lately, and I’ve really noticed my overall mood/motivation dip as a result. I’ll also try and get back on top of my blog, career plans and life in general – wish me [a lot of] luck.

 

Endnote: this was the last (touch wood, fingers crossed, repent all sins) of a three-game injury streak for me – the game before  I was apparently knocked out, and the game before that I’m 95% certain I cracked a rib. Despite last week’s game being more physical than the others, I came off relatively unscathed… #problemswithrugbyaddiction

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

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!