Viking Way Ultra 2022 – Race Report
I had headed over from the Isle of Man on the Thursday, afraid that rail strikes, or weather would delay my journey; they didn’t. So, I’d had a day to spare and had invested some time in driving down in the Hire Car to Lincoln to recce the route through the city. I had even managed to sneak in a visit to the Christmas market and get myself a German Bockwurst.
After Byron had generously agreed to squeeze me into his car for the quick trip over the Humber Bridge, we’d had a bit of a wait for the Mark Cockbain inspirational speech. “There’s no backup so don’t drop out”. “It’s cold so you’ll probably freeze”. The usual barrel of gags and pick-me-ups. 7am ticked by, the horn sounded, and we headed off with the first signs that the sun might make an appearance, as it just nudged its way towards the horizon behind us. We headed West, under the Humber Bridge, as people shuffled themselves into their natural order based on how much running to walking they would be doing. In my case, it was 15 minutes running to 5 minutes walking and I kept that up for a good bit until the muddy fields started – about 6 or 7 miles. Then it quickly became clear that my main advantage, being able to walk very quickly with little effort, was of no use here. You can’t walk quickly, effortless or otherwise, across muddy fields or down flooded country lanes. You could run, or you could trudge but those were your only two choices. I opted to run.
It was about then that I bumped into Curt Watkinson. He was coming from the wrong direction, having accidentally added one more muddy field crossing than was necessary. We reached a gate together and then I had the immense pleasure, over several hours of sunshine and showers, of being guided across North Lincolnshire and the Lincolnshire Wolds by Curt, who seems to know every nook, every cranny, and every story about the area. I loved it. An ultra and a guided tour in one. A mate of his came out to support him in a few places and, even after moved on ahead, was still cheering me on whenever he saw me. I was having a great time and had made it to Checkpoint 2 a few minutes ahead of schedule and in great spirits. My legs and hips were already feeling the effort of staying upright on the slippery stuff, but I was in a good place.
The next section was a different matter. It got muddier. It got a lot wetter as the earlier showers with spells of sunshine turned into torrential, freezing rain. The paths became more slippery, and I’d reached a point where I had to permanently look at my feet in order to prevent falling over. This was hurting my neck but also creating a risk of missing a turn, as well as making progress slow. I began to feel pressured. In order to meet the cut-offs (especially the one that counts, finishing in 40 hours) you had to keep pushing. But a lot of the surfaces meant it wasn’t possible to run or even walk quickly. I could just about trudge across them without falling – too often. This meant that, whenever there WAS a section that could be run - a short bit of road connecting two footpaths or through a village – I had to push hard to try and keep the average speed up.
This was contrary to what I’m used to. Ordinarily, I use the easiest sections to relax, both mentally and physically. I can walk at 14 minutes per mile for hours with my heart rate well below 100bpm and it rests my running legs so that, when I do resume running, I feel stronger. I was starting to realise that this was not going to be possible on the Viking Way. I needed to work hard and concentrate harder on the 80% of the course that was slippery underfoot. Then I needed to push hard on the 20% that was reasonably runnable. There was no space for resting. This also meant that there was really no space to rest the mind. It was 100% concentration 100% of the time. In past races I’ve relaxed my mind by drifting off into my own thoughts or by chatting on the phone to my family. But there were very few sections of the course where this was going to be possible. I did manage to chat to my wife on a nice section of the former railway line joining Horncastle and Woodhall Spa (54-58) miles, but I don’t think I spoke to her again until the final road section into the finish.
Somewhere before Horncastle, I caught up with Ronnie Staton and we ran together and chatted for a good while. It soon became apparent that he was a little bit quicker than I am though, so on that same disused railway into Woodhall Spa he began to move ahead, and I made the decision I wasn’t going to be able to stay with him. However, I did stay just close enough to follow him across the golf course and into town. I’d checked on Google Streetview and I knew my way across and out of town but there were no images of the route across the golf course on the way in. Ronnie is a local and knew the route very well, so I just wanted to keep him in sight long enough to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid. And then we saw two runners coming towards us. They were lit up and my immediate thought was that two keen locals were heading for an evening run. It was only after I’d said good evening and they had gone past that I clocked their race numbers and realised they were in the race. All four of us stopped and did a bit of a double take. It turns out it was Ian leach and Colin Crowhurst who were joint second at the time. They had run into Woodhall Spa, got lost, seen a sign for the Viking Way and were now following it back the way they had come, without realising.
The four of us formed a little group, the three of them a little ahead and me trying to hang on. We headed out of town and picked up the next set of footpaths into Checkpoint 4 at Stixwould, the last before Lincoln. And what a section. We had been running mostly South until now, with a freezing North Easterly coming from behind. At this point, we turned North, and the rain and sleet were being driven into our faces as we trudged across a seemingly endless series of ploughed fields, fully exposed to the elements. You had to carefully step on the top of each furrow, so your stride length was dictated by that distance. I went in front and tried to set a rapid cadence, as much to stay warm as for any desire to keep the speed up. I think that was the worst part of the race, for me. The combination of cold, wet, exposure and conditions underfoot just made progress so slow and difficult.
Ronnie was wearing shorts and, I think, starting to get cold so he told us he was going to move on ahead. I think I saw him once more, a while later, when he was in the far corner of a field we had to go around, but he very quickly pulled out a big lead over us and was almost an hour ahead by the next checkpoint. A lot of that was down to Ronnie pushing hard but a chunk of it was also down to us. Just before that checkpoint, we came down a lovely lane and joined a road just to the East of a village called Fiskerton. This is a couple of miles west of the checkpoint. The official Viking Way route would have us just follow that road into the next checkpoint and onwards into Lincoln. But this was Mark Cockbain’s 10th Anniversary as a race director, and we were to follow the original route from 10 years ago which would take us along the river path. We doubled back on ourselves, found the footpath down to the river and then got confused. The maps showed us following a path on the North side of the river and then heading up a lane to the Checkpoint. But, when we reached the river, there was a bridge over to a path on the South side of the river but no path at all to the North. We wondered if we might be able to follow the South Path and then cross back on another bridge, further on, but we could see no other bridges marked on the maps. Instead, we decided, the path on the North bank must have just become overgrown with disuse and we would just have to press on as best we could.
And press on we did. Through waist high (thankfully, dead) nettles and bracken we pressed on before the bank became impassable. Then we headed inland a bit, around some trees and found sheep fields marked out by electric fences. We “VERY” carefully scissored over the electric fence, into the field, across, over and out the other side and to another electric fence. I think we repeated this process three times across three sheep fields before I decided to use a plastic fence post for support. Plastic doesn’t conduct electricity, of course. However, rain does, and I got a hefty shock for my troubles. Still, it made Colin and Ian laugh, so that’s nice. In the end, we even had to give up on crossing hazardous electric fences as a small tributary to the main river now blocked our path. We followed this back up, across more fields and fences, to the main road and headed to the Checkpoint cursing the name Cockbain. It took me nearly a week afterwards to figure out where we went wrong. Yes, it was our mistake. Sorry Mark.
As you can see on the map, above, the bridge we encountered was NOT a bridge over the river. It was a bridge over “North Delph” (whatever that is) that runs parallel to the river. Had we just crossed over that bridge, we could have happily followed the proper footpath on the Northbank and then headed up to the checkpoint. Instead, we followed the red dotted line from P, West, for a short while before realising that we were heading back to the village of Fiskerton, and so forged an entirely new path along the bank of the North Delph. I reckon this cost us in the order of 30 minutes (and an electric shock). Whilst it had been a joint decision to plough on across the fields it was very much Ian’s lead that had finally got us back onto the road into the checkpoint. He’d unintentionally become our main navigator and did a great job getting us back on track.
We finally made it to the Checkpoint, just before the City of Lincoln. I’d been over half an hour up on my pacing plan at the last checkpoint. Now, for the first time in the race, I was behind, albeit only by a couple of minutes. The three of us quickly filled our bottles, drank a fantastic cup of coffee, and headed in the direction of Lincoln where we were required to head to the Cathedral – at the top of a very steep hill. Colin hadn’t been to Lincoln before and so was looking forward to seeing the Cathedral for the first time. I’d been for my first ever visit just the day before, so I knew the route quite well, although I still managed to miss a right turn just before. The maps took us through the Arboretum, but Ronnie had cautioned that this would be closed at that time of night, so to make sure to turn right beforehand and get above it, to minimise the final climb to the Cathedral. Luckily, Ian noticed and pulled us back and, from then on, it was quite a simple route through the city, down steep hill and through the middle of the pre-Christmas party season which was in full swing, despite it being after 2am and only a degree or two above freezing.
Ian and I disagreed on the best route South, out of Lincoln. I wanted to stick to the route I’d practiced on Friday, but Ian had been down a few times over the previous weeks, practicing most sections of the route, and felt confident in the way he’d done it before. After his earlier successes (and because I was too tired to bother) I wasn’t prepared to argue and so Colin and I dutifully followed him along quite a few miles of steep, slippery, twisting and turning tracks. For the majority of this section, I was quite uncomfortable. I knew where we should have been and the sort of things I should be able to see. And I couldn’t see any of them. It felt like a really long time before I started to feel like I could point to a spot on the map and think, “Yes. That’s where we are”. But Ian knew where he was going and led us brilliantly. My discomforts were of my own making and disappeared once we reached the little village of Waddington.
By then, Ian had been out in front for quite a lot of miles. It’s harder to lead than follow. Mentally and physically. You have to concentrate hard on the navigation, but you are also having to pick the best line across mud, ruts, stony paths and whatever other horrible surfaces we covered. Those behind can just look at the back of your legs and follow. Colin was suffering from the cold. His legs aren’t as long as Ian’s and mine so he couldn’t walk at the same pace. This meant he often drifted off the back of our little group but would then jog to catch us up. But this made it difficult for him to go in front as he either walked too slowly or ran too quickly for Ian and me. So, confident I now knew where we were, I offered to lead the next bit. Maybe I imagined it, but Ian sounded quite relieved. He’d put in a serious spell.
It was probably just after 3am, the hardest part of the night. You’ve fought through your usual bed time and had a bit of a second wind. But, around 3, that second wind is long gone, and dawn still seems a way off. This is often where negative thoughts creep in. I think it actually worked in my favour to be leading now. I had something to concentrate on. Ian had given me the chance to rest, and I felt good leading us on undulating bridleways, up and down muddy fields and along wet and deeply rutted lanes. I was aware that Colin was cold and that our pace had dropped due to the issues we had been having. I made a conscious effort to try and pick up the pace just a little. On anything that wasn’t uphill I was counting my steps out (inside my head!). Then I would jog 100, walk 100. We were following bridleways along the edges of fields, and it just so happened that a single run/walk of 200 paces, would get us across a field from hedge to hedge. So, as well as keeping the pace up and giving my brain something to do, it was helping with the navigation.
Unfortunately, I was pushing just a bit too hard for the other two. It’s a difficult balance. We needed to keep moving in order to stay warm and keep ahead of the cut-offs. But, whilst I was feeling really good after a few hours rest, just following Ian, the other two were struggling to keep up. At each navigation point I stopped until they caught up. This was usually only for 20 or 30 seconds, and it wasn’t bothering me, but I felt uncomfortable that I was maybe pushing harder than they wanted to be pushed. Twice they mentioned that they wouldn’t mind if I wanted to head off. Eventually, a little after 5am, I reached a navigation point, turned to look behind me and there was no sign of any head torches following. I waited a few moments but realised that I either needed to slow my pace overall or push on alone. I chose to push on alone.
The next checkpoint was only an hour ahead and would be the second and last chance to get things from our drop bags. I decided that I would continue with my current run 100, walk 100 until there and see how far behind me Coline and Ian were by the checkpoint. I was fine navigating by myself along this section. The waymarks were good, and, in any case, it was mostly a case of following bridleways South. There were a few small villages to negotiate my way through, but I’d added more detailed maps of these to the official race maps and they were proving their worth.
I made it into Checkpoint 6 just after 6am, and a few minutes up on my target time, so I was back on track. I changed my shoes and socks, and wished I’d done it with my eyes closed when I saw the state of my feet. My new shoes with Inov8 Parkclaws, with a lot more grip than the Hoka Speedgoats I have been wearing for the last 100 miles, so I was looking forward to them providing a more stable footing over the last 50 miles that, I’d been told, was the worst of the lot for mud!
Feet sorted, I grabbed my warm jacket along with dry hat, snood and gloves. All the wet stuff went back in my drop bag, and I was just leaving the (very low!) marquee to mix my drinks and head off, when Ian and Colin arrived. They were 8 minutes behind, one hour since I’d left them, so I was clearly moving quite a lot quicker than they were. The sky was just beginning to lighten and, in an hour or so, I’d be turning off my head torch, so I made my mind up to press on.
There were about 5 miles of straight country lanes heading due South from the checkpoint. Even I couldn’t get lost on that. I just needed to make sure I knew where I was so that I didn’t miss the right turn-off. That’s tricky on a straight, featureless track. You have to count each hedge you pass and keep a count of every lane you cross over. I vaguely remember losing count of the lanes at some point, but the sun was up, and I felt good when I spotted a Viking Way sign pointing me up a long climb, across several fields, to the West.
This meant a new page from my collection of 20-odd pages of maps, so I tucked it away into my hip pocket as I started the climb. I’d swapped to a thicker pair of gloves as I’d left Checkpoint 6 and they made it harder to open the mesh pocket on my hip and I remember thinking to myself that the map hadn’t gone as far into the pocket as usual. The climb seemed to take forever and was followed by an almost as long descent into the village of Carlton Scroop (?!). I reached to my hip for the map to check on the turn, but it wasn’t there. Of course, I knew I’d dropped it back at the start of that climb but that didn’t stop me frantically checking every pocket and riffling through all of my many pages of maps “Just in case”.
What to do? I could head back up the steep climb and down the other side in the hope of finding my dropped map. But it could easily have blown away and I might add on 6 miles of tough terrain for nothing. I knew I was on route (there was a Viking Way marker next to me) so I could sit and wait for Ian and Colin to catch me up. But, whilst they had only been 8 minutes behind 2 hours ago, it could easily be over 20-30 minutes by now and I’d be cold by then. My maps were printed double-sided. I could remember most of the first side but had no idea what was on the second. But I decided to go for it. I headed off, just following the Viking Way markers, and relying on the fact that I knew we headed North West out of Carlton Scroop, West to a road and then roughly South. After that, I had no idea.
I had sat on a wall at a church whilst I pondered my choices, half hoping Ian and Colin might jog past with my dropped map in their hands. But they didn’t so I jogged on and quickly found the next Viking Way marker out of the village and along a little country lane. We’d been warned there would be rain later on this morning. But then, we’d been told Saturday was going to be really nice and it had lashed it down most of the day. As with Saturday’s predictions, Sunday’s forecast was proving hopelessly inaccurate but, this time, to our advantage. It was a cold but clear morning so at least I only had one thing to worry about. I navigated really well over the next couple of miles. I think it helped that I had a rough idea of the general direction I should be heading in. I took a few compass readings to make sure paths were heading roughly the way I thought they should, and I just got on with it.
I reached a road and turned South. I remembered there was a turn off to the West somewhere along here, but I didn’t know how far. A few hundred meters or a few miles? The road headed steeply downhill, and I remember seeing a bridleway signposted off to my right (West) but there was no Viking Way marker on it, so I carried on. I carried on for a couple of miles until I came into a village and, eventually, a T-junction besides a village petrol station. But there were no signs, anywhere, of a Viking Way marker. I was lost. I was in a village, but I didn’t know the name of it. I didn’t know the name of where I was heading and, other than knowing the finish (40+ miles away) was somewhere South, I had no idea what direction to head. I could head back up the hill I had just run down but I had checked each lane possible turning carefully. I was fairly sure none had a Viking Way sign on them so I would be picking one at random.
After 10 minutes or so of just wandering I had spotted a road sign that said Marston and I had a vague recollection that I had seen Marston on one of the maps, near the next checkpoint in Foston. And I had the map with the next checkpoint. If I could get to Marston, I might see a signpost for Foston and at least be able to get myself unlost, even if I would now be out of the race for missing a chunk of the route. Despite his pre-race briefing of “If you get lost, don’t call me. I don’t know where you are, either” I called Mark. I explained what had happened, that I was completely lost, but that I had a plan to get unlost and at least find my way to Checkpoint 7. I expected a response along the lines of “Ah well. Never mind. You gave it a go”. Instead, I got “Fuck it. These things happen. If you can get to the next checkpoint, you might as well carry on”. To be fair, in my mind, I was probably cutting off a chunk of the course. In reality, I was adding a bit more than 2 miles on. Easier road miles, but still two miles.
The signpost showed it was 3.5 miles to Marston, so I got my head down and power walked most of it, with a bit of jogging thrown in for good measure. The road ran dead straight for a mile and a half before turning hard right with nearly a mile more into Marston. And, as I entered the village, Byron pulled alongside me in his car and said “I understand you might be a bit lost”. He’d been following me on the tracker and so had seen me miss the turn and carry on all the way down the hill into the village (Barkston, apparently). I assume Mark had called him after I’d spoken to him and asked him to point me in the right direction after I reached Marston. Byron drove on a few hundred meters ahead to a junction to make sure I turned left, back onto the Viking Way. And, as I was still 100 meters or so away, I saw two other runners, coming from the opposite end of the village, and turn the way I was headed. When I got there, Byron confirmed that it was Ian and Colin. My dilly dallying and added few miles had been enough for them to catch and slightly pass me. I put on the best imitation of a sprint that I could manage and caught them up. I explained what had happened and my surprise that I was still in the race. They seemed much less surprised (by Mark’s reaction; not that I’d got lost) and then Ian handed me my missing map. We were actually just leaving the edge of the second side of that map and moving onto the next sheet, which I did have, but I was surprisingly pleased to have it, and therefore a full set, back in my possession.
Unsurprisingly, I decided at that moment that, if at all possible, I was going to stick with these guys until the end. I’d actually done really well so far, navigating by myself. My error hadn’t been navigational. My error had been losing a page of the map. But things like that can and do happen. Increasingly as you get tired. It was clearly safer (for me) to be in a small group and I knew my family, having watched me go horribly wrong and get lost, would now feel much better seeing me back with Ian and Colin. And I felt happier too.
We reached the next Checkpoint 35 minutes down on my pace chart. I’d been five minutes up, so all of the getting lost, messing about and getting unlost had cost me at least 40 minutes. And I’d been moving really well so it was probably more than that. Shortly after the checkpoint, we headed through two small villages, across a major road junction and then joined Sewstern Lane. This ran South for several miles and was one of the bits I’d been warned about. It was a track with very deep, water filled wheel ruts. In the middle was a mound of treacherously slippery mud. On either side were raised bits of slightly less treacherously slippery mud. We made our way down this lane very slowly, constantly changing from one line to the other, trying to find some grip. We got soaked. We got muddy. We got cold and we lost a heap of time because it was impossible to move any quicker than 2.5-3 miles an hour. There was a brief diversion onto a canal and across a river, but we were shattered from the last few miles and trudged this bit before quickly rejoining the torture of Sewstern Lane for another few miles.
We began to talk about pace, the need to pick it up if we were to finish before the cut-off. But none of us seemed able to do it. We just trudged on. Ian and I using our long legs. Colin still having little burst of running to keep up and stay warm. After a while, Sewstern Lane became The Drift, which seemed very much like Sewstern Lane but with a much more ominous name. I knew there was a section that crossed a glider airfield, just up ahead. Again, I had been warned about how easy it was to get lost here. I had studied it very carefully quite some time ago and had made detailed notes as well as adding my own, clearer maps to those we had been provided with. It seemed to take an age to get there, and The Drift climbed for a few miles before we eventually saw it. I’ve been gliding but I’d never heard of a glider runway at the top of a hill. Ian tells me they launch by running down the hill to gain speed. Anyway, it meant we were high up and exposed and so, of course, the long awaited rain decided to arrive along with a strong, northerly wind.
My notes said to head down past the hanger buildings, to our left, and re-find the Drift. But Ian, who had been down here before and much more recently than I’d written my notes, was convinced we headed up past the hangar and Colin’s map agreed. They had both done an amazing job with navigation and, especially since I’d rejoined them, I’d lost heart a little. We stuck together and walked up a very long road, alongside the runway. My notes said the track should quickly become a grass lane but there were signs all along saying the tarmac was a new surface so that made sense. We knew we should be aiming to eventually cross a road and we could see headlights moving a way off ahead. But after a little bit more than a mile of climbing up this lane, we realised it was actually drifting off, away from the direction of the road. We’d gone the wrong way.
After a bit of debate about maybe trying to cut across, Ian declared that we were too far off route and so it was better to head back. It was over a mile back, but it was downhill and on a decent surface. We ran. We’d been doing little bits of running on the way up. Colin had begun to feel stronger and was leading us now. The night was starting to draw in once more, the weather had very much closed in and the temperature had dropped another chunk so that the rain was very sleety, especially on top of that hill. I got the feeling Colin needed to run to keep warm but, actually, the more we ran, the more I realised he was just feeling really strong and wanted to run to keep ahead of the required pace. I was able to just about stay with him by relaxing and letting the gradient do the work, but I was knackered and didn’t feel like I had much left in reserve. Ian’s knees and ankles had been hurting for quite some time. To quote himself, he was “drugged up to the eyeballs” but was still yelping in pain on steep descents or anything rocky.
But Colin plugged away. We got back to a small forest and Ian assured us that, if we cut through the forest, The Drift was on the far side, and we’d save ourselves a fair chunk. The forest was thick with vegetation and there was no discernable track. But Colin found a way through and, more importantly, a gap in the wall that allowed us to get back onto The Drift without having to climb over barbed wire. We were back on track, and I’d surprised myself with how far I’d run in one chunk. But Colin wasn’t hanging around. Whether cold, pissed off, worried about the time or just wanting to get this over with, he was a man on a mission and he pushed the three us HARD all the way to the next, and final checkpoint. Checkpoint 8.
We’d told each other we were just going in, top-up drinks, and out. We were now an hour down on my pace plan. Thanks to Colin, we’d pushed far harder than I’d believed I was capable, and yet we’d lost 25 minutes due to the awful surfaces and then the mistake at the airfield. It was so disheartening. It was still 17 miles to the finish, and it was 5pm. We had six hours, which should be plenty, but we didn’t know what the surfaces would be like and there was the final section along Rutland water still to come. On the maps, this looked incredibly simple. But we’d all been warned by others that it was all too easy to head around in a big loop and find you’d wasted an hour. So, once again, Colin started running. And running. He only seemed to stop if there was a really big hill or if I mentioned that Ian was dropping too far back from us. I was utterly amazing myself by just about hanging on to the back of Colin. But that was nothing compared to the herculean efforts of Ian. He was clearly in agony, but it was only very occasionally that we had to stop and wait for him. As often as not, he was right there with us. Wincing and letting out the occasional yelp as the pain got too much. But, with a combination of running and fast walking he was keeping pace.
At one point, up a long field climb, I went slightly ahead. I reached the top and turned around to see, 100 meters back, Ian having a wee against a tree stump and Colin just stood watching him. I headed back down to find out what on earth was going on. Thankfully, it had a perfectly innocent explanation. As he’d been climbing the field, Colin had spotted the tree stump and thought it was a Goblin. When he saw Ian stop next to it, he, naturally enough, thought Ian was stopping to talk to the Goblin so he stopped to find out what they were saying to each other. So, nothing strange going on there, then.
I think it was shortly after that, coming down the other side of the hill, we crossed a small bridge with thick, slippery mud on either side. Colin and I made it over and off the other side, but Ian slipped and, with a yell of pain, fell backwards into a ditch. Thankfully, a load of brambles and other weeds broke his fall, but it was a job to hall him back out without being pulled in myself. However, we were now on the outskirts of Exton. The last village before Rutland Water. One more big effort, up some fields, down the other side and through a pub garden. I had made copious notes about how to navigate this next bit and the boys followed me on the slightly longer, but safer route, around to the car park where we were amazed and delighted to see Lynn Baker. She’d made us a cup of coffee at CP8, but we hadn’t expected to see her again. The car park is a Checkpoint if they can get someone there but, honestly, given the conditions, we didn’t think anyone would bother.
She asked if we needed anything but we all just wanted to get it over with so we all said no. She then held up a small package and asked if anyone would like a chocolate hobnob, at which point, finish be damned, we all crowded around her for a biscuit. We’re ultra-runners. We like sugar. We love hobnobs. And we really love Lynn. She then gave us a brilliant description of the final couple of miles. Ian was still in charge of navigation but was checking with me as I’d mentioned I had good notes for this bit, and he wasn’t certain. But Lynn’s description was excellent. We were a bit concerned by her statement of “a couple of ups and downs” but we got on with it. We ran as much, possibly more, as possible. We walked the steep climbs and ran everything else as hard as we possibly could. When we finally reached the shore of Rutland water there was a really cold wind coming off it and we were quite glad that the path headed straight back, away and up towards the main road. And that was it. We knew the road ahead was the road straight into Oakham and the finish at the library. Ian had guestimated the finish at 3 miles. I decided not to get my hopes up, in case it was longer, but one of us decided to ask Google and it said just 2.4 miles.
Ian had, somehow, kept up with us but now, I think he relaxed. We had almost two hours left to cover 2.5 miles. We were going to finish, and we were going to do it with some time to spare. We no longer needed to rush and so I think the adrenaline or whatever that had kept Ian going for all those terrible, painful miles, ebbed away and he had nothing left. He didn’t need to. He told us to go on. Told us he wanted to finish by himself. Was looking forward to it. We ignored him. I realised I hadn’t checked into my hotel near the finish, and it was now after 9pm. I gave them a ring in a bit of a panic but there was no need. They had a bar full of celebrating England fans after the world cup win over Senegal. There would be someone around for a good while yet. Then, with only 9% left on my phone’s battery, I put my wife out of her misery and gave her a call. I hadn’t spoken to her in over 24 hours. I was afraid of falling, of missing a turn and then, when completely lost, of running the battery down on my phone and being unable to call for help. I’d asked everyone, Sarah included, to stop calling and messaging. I’d said there was nothing wrong and I just needed to save the battery, but they didn’t believe me, especially when they saw I was miles off course. I chattered away to her for a while as the three of us trudged slowly down the road towards Oakham. She confirmed that we were going to finish in joint third place and that everyone behind us had now dropped out. I explained the lost map and that I really was low on battery and afraid that, if people kept ringing, even if I didn’t answer, my phone would die and then I’d be in serious trouble.
At one point, we saw a “Frail or Elderly Person” road sign and decided it was probably a reference to us. We were barely moving. We got very excited when we saw a roundabout, but it was the wrong one. There were still several hundred meters to go yet. But then we saw it. The mini roundabout that marked the last few yards to Oakham library and the finish. We were so relieved to see Mark, Byron, Ian’s parents and many others that had come out to see us that we had to be reminded to cross the actual finish line. We got our medals and T-shirts, had some photos taken, thanked each other, Mark and everyone else and then, as always with these things, got on with the tasks still left.
Finishing an ultra is not the end of the matter. Luckily for me, Andy and Dave, two of the other runners who had dropped out earlier, were staying at the same hotel as me. Andy kindly carried my kit bag and led me gently to the hotel where he made sure I was checked in. Dave went and got me a pot of Sudo creme from his kit, which I smothered myself with before bed and, I’m sure, took a couple of days off the recovery. The tops of my thighs were raw and bloody by the end but were fine within a few days. They got me up to my room, set my bag on the luggage rack, invited me for breakfast with them and then left me alone to get the remaining jobs done.
I’m not sure how, but despite running 155 miles in 39 hours, I managed to get myself undressed and into a bath. I managed to put my phone and watch on charge. I even got my few remaining clean, but damp, clothes out and hung them over chairs for the morning. I put a towel down on the bed to prevent bleeding onto the bedding and then tried to go to sleep. I just lay there, shaking with cold. Eventually, I got up, went over to the radiator and turned it up to full, climbed back into bed, and used two spare pillows as a bodywarmer. I think I got a bit less than four hours sleep. Maybe if I’d used the dry towel to lie down on, rather than the soaking wet one I’d dried myself with after the bath? Yes, I think that would have help.
Oh well.
Can I just add an enormous thank you to everyone who helped out with this event. I'm not going to pretend that I enjoyed it, Much of it was horrible. But I met some amazing people over the weekend and discovered inner strengths I didn't know were there. So thank you to Mark, the whole brilliant support team, Curt, Ronnie, Ian and Colin as well as Andy, Dave and Riccardo for running with me, looking after me and helping me achieve so many positives from a really difficult weekend.
No comments:
Post a Comment