Race Report
So, the 130-mile Liverpool to Leeds Canal race. My previous longest race was 107 miles walking from Belfast to Dublin in 2018. The furthest I'd run in one go before was about 17 miles and that was a few years ago. I hadn’t run regularly in quite some time. But I started training the Monday before New Year giving me 34 weeks and I was already a pretty decent ultra-walker so how hard could it be? From races I’d done before, the runners seemed to spend a lot of time walking so I might even have an advantage, right?
34 weeks later with over 1500 miles logged and a longest run of 32 pretty comfortable miles I felt ready as I waited at the hotel for my taxi. Which was late. And later. And OMG we have 10 minutes to the start and she’s only just pulling up. To her credit she drove 100 meters down a closed road to get me within about 50 meters of the start line with a full 3 minutes to spare. Crises averted.
I put myself at the very back and off we went at 6am with the temperature already pushing 20C. I’d decided to stay last and find out what’s what by just hanging on to the last runner or two but a glance at my watch showed even the last runner or two were doing sub 10 min miles so I slowed down and let them all go. Nutters. I was confident they were going to suffer. To be fair a few quickly realised and slowed down also. I was sticking to my plan of jog for 25 mins, walk 5 mins which averaged out at just over 11 min miles. About 7 miles in, after toing and froing with a lady for a bit, we settled in alongside each other for chat. Her name was Debbie Jewson and she opened with “Wow. You walk quicker than I run. You must know Richard McChesney?”. I heard that line a LOT over the next day or two. The Mad Kiwi is a celebrity in these circles!
We chatted for a few miles before she dropped back, and I carried on averaging a little over 11 min miles into checkpoint 1 at around 15 miles. There were plenty of people sat at the checkpoint, eating, drinking etc. I just filled my bottles with water, grabbed some tailwind and left behind at least half a dozen runners. All part of my pre-race plan. As a walker we don’t tend to stop for too long, so I thought I’d probably make up time and places here.
Another part of my plan was to maintain the jog/walk only until around lunch when it would be too hot to sensibly run. Then I could take advantage of my walking efficiency and stick to around 13m30 pace but keep the heart rate down. I pushed through to 12pm before I switched to walking. 32.5 miles in 6 hours. I probably should have slowed earlier though. I was drinking as much as I could, but I was still quite dehydrated. I was collecting around 2 litres of fluids - water, water with an electrolyte tab and tailwind - at each checkpoint. But I was running out before the next one and my mouth was so dry, I didn’t have enough saliva to eat anything. Chatting to others I think this was a common complaint. By midday it was pushing 25C and climbing.
Heading into Wigan Pier at 35 miles I was desperate for more fluids and fantasising about a pint of lemonade from a pub. But all the pubs and shops seemed to be on the other side of the canal. I asked a local who pointed me to a Domino's Pizza where I grabbed 3 bottles from the fridge. Water, coke and lemonade. Then I made my first mistake. I stood outside and necked a very cold bottle of lemonade in one go. My stomach got bloated and I quickly felt sick. The next few miles were all uphill passing the spectacular Wigan Flight series of 21 locks. I’d been looking forwards to this for months but wasn’t able to enjoy it. I needed to be sick, but it wasn’t happening.
The surfaces had already been varied. From smooth paving to good dirt tracks. Rocky, stony paths that pound the soles of your feet. Rutted, stony sections. Hard mud. Narrow, depressed grooves ready to turn your ankle. I knew I had a blister on the end of the right middle toe, and it popped at about 38 miles. I found a bench, taped it over so that the nail didn’t start lifting off and carried on feeling awful but telling myself it was just a bad patch. And the good thing about a bad patch is that it is always followed by a good patch. Once the sun started to set, I was confident I’d be back on it.
I’d passed quite a few by now and seemed to be in a bit of a limbo. Ignoring the couple at the very front there seemed to be two groups forming. Those mainly walking interspersed with a few short runs were now behind me. Those who were mainly still running with a few short walking breaks were well ahead. I only saw one person from CP3 (40 miles) to CP4 (55 miles). Luckily, I kept coming across a very kind lady supporting a fellow runner and she was topping up my drinks and offering encouragement. The support from the official checkpoint crew and everyone else was brilliant. They were very aware how much we were suffering in the heat and they did everything they could to keep us going.
At CP4 I realised I wasn’t quite going to make CP5 (70 miles) before dark so I grabbed a long sleeve top and my head torch. I kept seeing someone a good distance ahead. I think this was the runner the kind lady was supporting. But about 5 miles shy of CP7 I needed a toilet stop. I took the chance to change into the longer top and get ready for the night and so was stopped for around 5 minutes. This seemed to put me just out of synch with them and I didn’t see either again for a long time. However, I’d passed the half-way point and sung my customary “Living on a prayer”. “Whoa, we’re half-way there. Whoa-oh, I’m running on a prayer”. It cheers me up. Shame there was nobody else there to hear it. To my ears I sounded amazing!
By the time I reached the Marquee at CP5 (21:30) it was dark and there were a few people in there having a rest and something to eat. The checkpoint crew had camping stoves and had laid on a variety of hot food and drinks for us. This was the first time I’d decided to actually stop and “join in” so I was plonked in a chair whilst someone filled my bottles, somebody else made me a cup of tea and yet another person got me a plate of beans and boiled potatoes. The tea went down a treat (the best cup of tea I’d had all day!), the beans were manageable, and the potatoes got left behind. I stood up a bit gingerly – beware the chair! – thanked everyone and announced that I was now ready to skip lightly off down the towpath. This was greeted with much laughter and derision which I took as a challenge. So, I skipped, Morecombe and Wise style off into the night for the start of the 9 or so hours of darkness. Well, if you aren’t going to enjoy yourself then what’s the point?
The next section (70-84 miles) had two tunnels which required navigating around via roads, subways, paths, gates, tunnels and housing estates. I’d read plenty of reports of people getting lost here and the organisers allowed a huge 6 hours to cover it. But I had a GPX track installed on a mapping app on my smartphone, so I was confident I was going to be okay. The first tunnel was within a mile or two. I passed someone staring at their maps just before the diversion, but I took out my phone and just followed the red dot and cruised through. I was picking up the pace again. My stomach finally felt good and I didn’t feel too badly dehydrated. My fluids were lasting longer now that it was a bit cooler and I do a lot of my training at night, so this was all pretty comfortable territory for me. Around 80 miles the infamous Foulridge tunnel section was coming up with a 1.5-mile diversion involving several turns and gates that has caught out many a racer in the past. I sailed through feeling pretty smug. What comes after pride?
I passed through CP6 where one of the support crew explained we were going to be diverted around a closed section of path. But there would be people up there to guide us around it on roads so it wouldn’t be a problem. We had already been told this section was being repaired but the organisers had been led to believe it was all passable with care and that we could get around the safety fences used to close off these sections to the general public. This had now changed for one short section. A runner called Matthew Bowers passed me as I took another toilet break, but I wasn’t far behind. I would occasionally see the light from his torch or hear him open and close a gate ahead of me. A few miles before the diversion we had instructions to cross over bridge 165 at mile 91. I saw Matt’s torch on the bridge. He hesitated for a bit and then headed back down the other side. I followed him down quite a steep lane. He stopped. I passed. He caught up. We both stopped. We’d gone the wrong way. Back up the VERY steep lane which was at least twice as long on the way back up as it had been coming down. Back at the bridge we discovered the gate we had both missed and headed through, a bit cross with ourselves. From the top of the bridge no other lights were visible, so we were at no risk of being passed as a result of our error.
Matt was running with walking breaks. I was walking with running breaks, but it averaged out about the same. He reached the diversion at bridge 169a just ahead of me, but I could see and hear a marshal guiding him up onto the road and explaining where to re-join the canal. It all sounded simple enough. And it was. On the mile or so of road I was able to stretch out the hips and glutes with some proper race-walking. Quite a relief after several miles of looking at your feet skipping over rocks and roots. I caught Matt, spotted the high-vis bib tied to a gate post, headed though and down onto the canal at bridge 172. Simples.
We both stopped. The instructions said to re-join on the right-hand path, but we were on the left. We found a footbridge over a lock, crossed over, climbed over a style – not easy after 95 miles – walked a short way and the path ended. We debated for a few minutes, went back over the style, over the bridge and down the left side. There was a safety fence and clearly no safe way to get around. Maybe we hadn’t looked hard enough for the path the first time. Bridge. Style. No path. Style. Bridge. Back to bridge 172 and the Hi-Vis bib. So, we phoned race HQ and explained our problem. The lady on the phone obviously couldn’t see what we could see or where we were but slowly and carefully, she read the instructions back to us. Sure enough, we should carry on and expect to have to climb around some fences. So, off we went but a bit puzzled that we were on the left side of the canal and we knew the next checkpoint was in about 5 miles and on the right. But there would be plenty of bridges between now and then to get back over.
It took some effort to get around the first fence. Then I had to partially dismantle the second fence half a mile on. Strange. And there was clearly still no path over on the right side. Another fence involved climbing a dry-stone wall. More awful path clearly under repair. Then we came to a fourth fence under a bridge clearly marked 169a. The very bridge we had been diverted from 48 minutes ago. We were running back towards Liverpool. This was why the path was on the “wrong” side. This was why the fences were impassable unless you dismantled them first. It took a few minutes to accept the awfulness of the truth. All the problems had clearly been clues as to the terrible mistake we had made. We had been expecting to see mile marker 95 but, instead had seen 93. We just felt disheartened that we hadn’t yet gone as far as we thought we had. Now we realised we had been going backwards. We hadn’t even seen bridges 170 or 171. Maybe we missed them, but they aren’t all marked with their numbers
As we turned angrily back to walk through the “impassable” fences to bridge 172 we instantly spotted the most obvious indicator of our mistake. There, ahead, were the first signs of morning just lightening the sky. In the East. Towards Leeds. For the last 25 minutes the dawn had been laughing at our backs as we unknowingly walked West. We were both pretty angry. I was seething on the inside. Matt was far more vocal. He had done both the other two events in the series (The Grand Union and the Kennett Avon – 145 miles each) and was racing for both time and position. He’d lost an hour and probably several places. Kennett Avon had only been 4 weeks ago and he admitted his legs were now trashed. I’d set my sights on a 32-hour finish but, all through the night, I’d been driving on conscious that, if I could maintain my current pace then just a few miles of running at the end might sneak me in under 31 hours. That was no longer an option. We’d lost an hour and added 4 miles onto our race.
As I calmed down, I tried to think of what we might now be able to achieve if we really went for it. As I seemed to be the fresher and the quicker walker, I offered to go in front and pace us into CP 7 at 100 miles. We quickly worked out that, over some really rough ground, Matt could stick with me walking 14 min miles but no more. So that’s what we did for the next 8 miles. We passed a fellow racer and I worked out we would hit CP7 just after 06:45. Previously I’d been hoping to get in and out again by 6! If we were REALLY quick and organised at the checkpoint, we could be on our way again by 06:50. That was 10 minutes clawed back and just over a marathon still to go. If we could sustain our 14 min miles and put in a spurt at the end, then we’d probably finish in around 31h20. This is what I told Matt and he was confident that he could pick it up again after CP7. I started going through what I needed to do at the checkpoint in my head to see If I could do anything ahead of my arrival to help speed things up. A mile before we got there, I stripped from the waist up and just put back on my short-sleeved shirt. It was going to get hot again soon and it was now light so there was no need for a long-sleeved top, Hi-Vis bib, hat, torch or anything else to keep warm. I loosened the caps on my empty bottles and added an electrolyte tab to one. I arrived with my hands full and dumped everything into my kitbag, filled all my bottles and set off. Matt said he’d catch me up.
I quickly realised I should have grabbed my sunglasses or, at the very least, a cap as the sun was just cresting the horizon and I was walking directly into it. Hey ho. I felt brilliant so I had a little jog. Then I straightened up and tried swinging my arms properly. Then I was doing 10-minute mile pace. The temperature was perfect. We were right on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. There was a stunning sunrise. A low mist was sitting on the canal. I felt amazing. I’d clearly found a “runners high” so I decided to squeeze every drop I could from it before the heat got too much. I ran 8 miles in a little over 80 minutes and then had to drop down to running half a mile and walking the other half. This worked out at about 12 mins pace. I’d arrived at the 100-mile CP7 in 17th place. I reached the 115-mile marker at CP8 in 11th.
I decided to stop for a few minutes here. The last time I’d passed another runner was 6 or 7 miles back and I had been moving much more quickly than anyone else I’d seen. I was confident I had a good ten minutes on anyone behind and there didn’t seem to be anyone close ahead. As I filled my bottles the lady at the checkpoint gave me a verbal list of everything she had. She mentioned pineapple juice and a virtual ping went off in my head. She poured me a large cup, watered down 1-to-1, whilst I remembered to grab my cap from my bag and lather myself in factor 70 for the final push through the heat. I stood outside the front of the marquee and drank what seemed, at the time, a drink from the gods as I drank in the stunning surroundings of the eighth and final checkpoint.
There was now just half a marathon to go and, whilst I’d had no thoughts of stopping during the previous 115 miles, it finally dawned on me that I was absolutely going to finish and, thanks to killing myself on the previous leg, I had a good chance of getting in just before 1pm and that 31 hour finish I’d set my heart on. It all got rather too much for me. The miles. The heat. The lack of sleep and food. A friend who’d lost his wife a year ago to the day had just called me to wish me luck before he set off for a short memorial walk in her memory. So many kindnesses. I sobbed. And sobbed. It was great.
I managed another hour of half-mile run, half-mile walk before the heat got the better of me. The surface was varying a great deal between decent gravel tracks and awful rooted and rocky grooves that I was sure were going to leave the soles of my feet bruised for days to come. I race-walked the good stuff and trudged the bad as best I could. I got to the point where, even 4 miles an hour would get me in before 1pm. My family had been calling me regularly throughout the race to keep me going. Sarah had even used Facebook to encourage friends of mine to give me little pep-talk phone calls during the bad spells the previous evening to keep me going which was a fantastic help. But I was so tired, so hot and so sore that walking whilst holding a phone to my ear was just too painful so, I asked them to hold off and let me focus on the final 90 minutes push. With five miles left I got back into the half and half jog and walk thing, but the running was no better than 12 min pace and the walking slower still. I’m not sure it made any difference to my overall pace, but it kept the mind occupied and broke the miles into more manageable chunks.
I ran all the final mile and a bit. When I rounded the curve and saw the finish line my face lit up. I stood up a lot straighter, pulled in my stomach and started swinging the arms in the hope I might look a little bit like a runner as I crossed the finish. After my medal and photos, I looked up to see a whiteboard with only 9 names on it and my own being added next to the number 10. That came as a bit of a shock. I’d had no idea of placings up until that moment. I hadn’t ever asked. I’d hoped for maybe top 25. Next to my name they wrote “30h38”. That felt good.
The canal race crew are a fantastic bunch. It really is an incredibly friendly race and the support is awesome. You can bring your own support crew along if you want. In fact, if you are looking for a good placing or finishing time, I’d highly recommend it. The runners competing for places were in a different time-zone to me. The winner, Alex Whearity (22h55), finished around the time Matt and I were walking back towards Liverpool! You can bring buddy runners with you from mile 70 as well as having crew meet you regularly with food and drink. I imagine carrying minimal supplies must make a big difference over such uneven terrain. But for walkers just looking for a long adventure it is a very hard but eminently manageable and rewarding event through some stunning countryside and the mills and factories of the post-industrial-age North of England. It will push you hard and you would benefit enormously from being able to train on similar surfaces but, with a 40-hour time limit, it is definitely walkable and a very different challenge to a Parish Walk or Centurion event.
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