This blog is a bit different to the usual ones I do about races. Usually I talk you through it, how it went, what was easy, what was hard, when I did some swears and when I thought about why the fuck I was even doing it in the first place. And that’s all here - but I feel like this one has another purpose.
Happy little Bailey before shit got real.
Do you remember at the start of lockdown when people were pillaging toilet rolls and pasta from the shelves of supermarkets for no fucking reason at all? This race was the opposite of that. This race showed just what humans can do together when they are calm, considered and have the clear instructions given to them. It shows how kind and considerate strangers can be to each other even when they are not allowed to touch or be close to each other. It shows how if we really want something to work as a community, with clear instruction and by working together, we can make it work, no matter what is thrown in our direction.
Last year I volunteered for 3 out of the 4 Centurion 100’s in order to get my place in the Grand Slam (all four of the 100 miles races in a calender year). I paid my way into the Thames 100 because I couldn’t volunteer due to work. I knew that for me, the Grand Slam was a once in a lifetime thing. I desperately wanted to do it, and there is no way I could afford to pay for it in cash. Then COVID came along and attempted to fuck the whole thing up. Races were moved (Thames Path to a date I couldn’t then do but can now – hurrah!) and we have now ended up with all four 100 mile races being within a month of each other. It’s a big ask. And it still wasn’t a given it would happen. In fact it still isn’t.
In the months and weeks leading up to the race, the attention to detail and the constant updates given by James Elson (RD) and his team were nothing short of amazing. Where Boris was bumbling through giving us all hope then no hope and basically encouraging us to take this whole thing on our own shoulders so he could blame us when it fucked up, James was clear, concise and well thought out in his planning. It was a complete masterclass in communication. He explained everything with a calm, serious clarity that gave every runner hope that we could do this. He had covered every what if in the book. The man should be prime minister. A few days before the race he gave a 25-minute race briefing online that couldn’t have been clearer. You can watch it here. And it’s worth watching.
This race was going to be very different. No mass start, no fanfare, no friends and family cheering you off or meeting you at random places along the way. We would be socially distanced from the off. Crew points would be pinpointed and adhered to. No number collection and no kit check. Masks to be worn at indoor checkpoints, which again would be socially distanced. Mandatory sanitizer at every aid station, nobody to help you fill bottles or give you a hug. The end point would have a few people waiting for you but no well done hug and no presentation of a buckle, You would have to stand metres away from the skeleton crew, pick up your own buckle and leave. It was going to be hard for any runner that fed off physical touch - a hug or a few words whilst quietly dying on a chair halfway – to get through this race. But I was going to give it a fucking good go. And I do love a cuddle.
Early morning on the North Downs Way 100.
North Downs Way 100 stuck to the same date it had always been – 8-9 August. The week before I had been sent off to Greece to do some promo shots for a Rat Race event on Mount Olympus and then to Santorini to do a recee of another course we were looking at doing as a Test Pilot event. This was ideal in that I has spent a week in temperatures of about 35 degrees, but NOT ideal I that I had spent the week running up the tallest mountain in Greece and navigating Santorini by running around it like a mentalist. Long and the short of it was I was knackered and the night before the race managed 4 hours sleep.
The morning of the race I got up at 4.45 and it was already 29 degrees and overcast. I managed to get my porridge down me, and we set off for Farnham – we had stayed at a friends house the night before, and she very kindly drove us to the start. We had been given a start time reflective of our perceived finish to help with social distancing. I was running with my friend Julius and our start time for a sub 24 hour finish was between 5.30 and 6am. We walked towards the start where James was stood in a full plastic face shield with a temperature gun. The need to hug him was almost overwhelming. He walked up to me, put what looked like a bolt gun to my head and told us we were good to go. And that was it. We crossed the start line at least 50 metres behind the person in front and we were off. Alone. To run 103 miles.
It was already very warm, but overcast, and I think that fooled a few people into going out too fast. We tried to keep it slow-ish but were motoring along at about 6 miles an hour for the first 12-13 miles. I kept having to remind us to slow down. The first checkpoint was at 14 miles. We were stopped, distanced, and funnelled through. There were three tables set up with water, tailwind, pepsi and snacks laid out in small individual plastic bags. One person at a table at a time. The volunteers stood there in masks well away from us, looking frustrated that that couldn’t help us fill out bottles or grab snacks but encouraging us and being as brilliant as they had always been. We santitized our hands on the way in and the way out. It was quick, clinical and a bit sad, but it worked. Top tip. Don’t try and open a bag if crisps when your hands are covered in uberlube. It doesn’t work out well. Crisps first, lube after. Golden rule.
Julius was really suffering with the heat at this point We slowed down but for the next few miles he just couldn’t get his stride back. We stopped at about 23 miles and got him changed out of his base layer – he went for a wee. It was brown. He was dehydrating and I had a feeling he might have sunstroke. We got into the next checkpoint – same deal. I encouraged him to ditch the hydro drinks and just take water – I was drinking a litre of water every 7-8 miles at this point and another 500ml at every checkpoint and taking on salt. It was hideously humid and even though I have done races in very hot climates this was different. The humidity made it feel like I was running in a sauna. Secret weapon was a bag of crisps at every aid station and water not hydro drinks. Keep it simple and plain. Don’t upset your stomach. Carry on.
My face. I mean really? Demanding an ice cream from Dimi Booth at 25 miles. Julius on his way out. Photo nicked from Dimi Booth.
We carried on until about 30 miles when Julius started staggering a bit. He defo wasn’t right. He was sweating so badly. We had passed the legend that is Dimi Booth and her other half Andrew who had given us calippos and ice for his neck and he perked up a bit, but after the ice melted it was back to square one. We had “the conversation” and it was decided I would run on and he would try and recover and catch me up. He never did catch me up. At mile 32 I got the news he was pulling out. I called him and he was in tears. That made me cry. But he couldn’t go on. He was out. His Grand Slam dream was over through no fault of his own, and I was completely gutted for him. He was one of 127 people who succummed to the heat that day. Almost 55% of the field didn’t make it.
I kept running and came to a road where all the crews were parked up, boots open in the sun, all socially distanced. They were all so kind, cheering on every runner and offering ice and water to every person that went past. They didn’t need to do that. This was human nature at its finest. It made my heart sing. People passed ice to me with gloved hands. People offered ice pops and food, their voices muffled by masks. We were doing this. We were making it work. It was the opposite to everything we have seen in the news and on the TV during this pandemic. It was love. It was care. It was just incredibly beautiful to be a part of it. I wish I had taken some photos.
I had about 20 miles to the halfway point to meet my pacer, the wonderful Lorna Spayne. Her husband Dom had been on to pace Julius for the second half of the race, but now turned into the crew I didn’t know I needed. I went pretty hard for those 20 miles, I wanted to see my pals, but sense checked all the time, walking the hills and taking on water. I hadn’t bought my headphones because I thought I would have company the whole time and there weren’t loads of people to chat to, so I just got on with it. A random man offered me a Capri Sun at the bottom of a hill. I wanted to kiss him. It was ice cold. It was amazing. As I approached the next checkpoint, I realised the last time I had put sun block on was 5am and I was worried I was burning. At the checkpoint I asked if anyone had any, and one of the volunteers came up with the goods - but couldn’t touch me to put it on my neck or back. I did the best I could, but it just slipped off my sweaty little arms and dribbled down my neck. I looked amazing.
Getting my trot on and having a nice time.
At this point I was having a pretty lovely time. It was tough and hot, but I felt strong and the sub 24-hour dream was still there when I got to the halfway point – 53 miles in 11 hours and 21 mins. I thought I could make up the time during the night. I was very, very wrong.
Dom, Lorna and Julius were waiting at the halfway point in the car park. Julius looked a lot better but was ok with his decision to pull out. He still wasn’t totally right. They had so much good food in the car. Strawberries, boiled eggs, squash, ice – it was a dream. Lorna looked scarily fit. I knew she was going to give me a run for my money on this bit. I felt OK. I knew it would start to get cooler now – or I thought it would. I was drenched in sweat and my shirt was covered in white salt marks. Everything felt OK, I didn’t get changed. We filled up and got on with it.
You know it’s serious when the visor comes off. Photo: Lorna Spayne
The next couple of ours flew by chatting to Lorna. It started to get dark and a bit cooler, and we were hitting a good pace. I love Lorna – she’s just the best pacer – she knows me well enough to have a go at me but also knows when to shut up and just run. Those 20 miles post halfway went by in a bit of a blur. Julius and Dom met us at crew points and provided much needed support without the need for social distancing. Dom is a monster of a crew member. He just gets it. He’s quick, efficient, doesn’t let you stay about for too long and gets shit done. It was so good to have him there. Both him and Julius had been doing shopping runs because I was munching through boiled eggs and crisps like it was the end of days. Every time we got to them everything was laid out ready for us. Total legends, the both of them.
Evening sets in and I question my life choices once again. Photo: Lorna Spayne
My next nemesis of an aid station was Detling – the 82 mile mark. I had volunteered here last year, and it had been like a war zone at times. Bodies everywhere. There were rumours about steps and cows and monsters and stuff, and I knew it had a high drop out rate. I hadn’t been on that part of the course, so I didn’t know what to expect but everytime I mentioned Detling to people in the BBR group I got the response “FUCK DETLING” so I knew it wasn’t pretty. About 45 mins before we got there disaster (sort of) struck. Lorna had taken a tumble about 20 mins before and bashed herself up a bit but was fine. She looked like I had punched her in the face. I hadn’t. I was really struggling with tiredness – something I had not encountered on a 100 before – but at times could feel my eyes starting to close. I think it was the heat in the day and the lack of sleep the week before. I just wanted to lay down and sleep for five minutes. I didn’t want to start taking caffiene as my stomach didn’t feel amazing and I didn’t want to fuck with it, so I wasn’t paying proper attention when Lorna told me to get off the field I was running on and onto the path. The moment she said that, I tripped on a little rock and proper hit the deck, elbow first them left leg and shoulder slamming into the super sold chalk downs. IT FUCKING HURT. The force of me hitting the ground broke my (now redundant) watch strap. I got up, did the mandatory “is anyone laughing at me” check and dusted myself down. It hurt but I couldn’t see any blood, so we kept going. Five minutes later I looked at my leg and blood was dripping onto it from my elbow which was pumping it all down my arm, onto my leg, onto the floor, onto my number. It was everywhere. I got my buff and put some water in it to try and clean it up a bit, but decided to wait until we got to Detling where there was a toilet that had taps.
Yeah that’s bleeding. Managed to wash most of it off with a buff. Photo: Lorna Spayne
We came over the bridge to the bright lights of Detling in 21 hours and 28 mins. The sub 24 dream was over. I still had 21 miles to go. I’d been too slow on that section. It had remained hot throughout the night – about 20 degrees and despite a tiny bit of rain it just wasn’t easing up. My feet had started to hurt. I was wearing trail shoes, but the ground was SO hard – worse than road – and I kept thinking about my super cushioned road shoes sitting at home. I had to swap to Plan D – finish the fucker. And there was no way I wasn’t going to finish it. Something really bad would have to happen. Buff up, into the toilets to wash the wound. It wouldn’t stop bleeding and there was no point covering it – it would just bleed through. We tidied it up the best we could, refilled and got on with the next 4 hellish miles up and down the Detling steps. Fuck Detling indeed.
Stop bleeding you fucker! Photo: Lorna Spayne
I was so, so tired. It came in waves, waves where I didn’t think I could stand up and then suddenly it would disappear. My stomach was threatening me too – again it came in waves. I was getting real ratty. My quads hurt a LOT both from falling over and doing 8,000 ft of elevation hoofing it up Olympus the week before. I had some major doubts about myself and felt like I should have pushed more, but not knowing when the ups and downs would end meant that I held back a bit. And I knew that the sub 24 was now out of the question so my motivation dipped. Lorna was great. Running ahead and doing her best to keep me going up the massive ups and downs out of Detling. The hallucinations were real too. I saw some well weird shit that definitely wasn’t there. I just wanted the dawn to come. When the light comes I always feel better. It took forever.
Staring into the abyss post Detling. Photo: Lorna Spayne
When dawn finally did break it was glorious. As soon as I could turn my head torch off, I felt better - I knew I could get to the end. My feet were so sore, my leg was killing me, my shoulder hurt, but Lorna kept me going. The weird thing is I feel like I ran more in the last 50 miles than I ever have in any 100 but I was much, much slower.
Morning comes. Thank fuck for that.
We went in and out of the final aid station with 4.5 miles of road to go. I so wanted to run all of it, but my leg was so, so painful. I’d taken some drugs but they weren’t having any effect – I would have to shuffle this one in. I ran as much as I could on the road section. If Lorna hadn’t been there, I would have walked all of it. As the track at Ashford came into sight, I felt and overwhelming sense of relief but also disappointment in myself that I hadn’t done better. Lorna peeled off to meet Dom and Julius as I ran the final 400m round the track trying not to cry. The Centurion Army, or a skeleton crew of them, stood masked and clapping at the end. Stuart March in his usual place on the floor. I crossed the line in 25 hours and 18 mins. I placed 30th overall, 5th lady and 2nd in category. Maybe I wasn’t as shit as I thought I was. The weather had killed off over half the field bit it hadn’t killed me. I picked up my buckle myself. I spoke to Nicci and felt terrible I couldn’t hug her. I trotted off to my crew and pacer and had a beer. I was done.
Love this picture - thanks Nici! Photo: Nici Griffin
The next few hours (the next couple of days in fact) were spent in a lot of pain. I managed to get some sleep in the Travelodge but I was fucked. Totally ruined. Maybe I had given it my all at the end of the day? I still think I could have done better but hindsight is a wonderful thing. The first race of the slam was done. I had Thames Path in a month. I knew that route, I knew it may well be cooler. Maybe that would be my 22 hour 100. Maybe not. But what does it matter?
What matters is how exemplary the organisation of this event was in the face of the hugest adversity the world as we know it has ever seen. James, Nici, Drew, you fucking did it. And it was glorious. You showed the world what love, belief and belonging are. You showed the world what an amazing group of people ultra runnners are. To every single person who took part in volunteering, organising, cheering, crewing, pacing and supporting thank you from the bottom of all of our hearts. This may not have been the race I wanted it to be but it showed the best side of humanity and I am so proud to have been a tiny part of it.
Next up Thames Path 100. I am fucking coming for you.
