“Why is water so heavy?”
I wheezed as I chugged over fields, through farmers gates, over styles, and through autumnal bogs; up, up and out of the tiny village of Hawes, deep in the Yorkshire Dales, that provided the low key (because there were only 50 of us), but anxiety inducing (because all 50 looked fitter than I did) starting point for my 50 kilometre self-navigated ultra-marathon.
After nine months of graft – 5am training runs, forfeited weekends and a fortune spent in order to pass the much-dreaded event kit check (the source of my first drama: stuffing my running backpack so full that the zip had broken – cue a mad dash to Decathlon the night before to replace!), was my adventure about to end within the first 2 kilometres because of a rookie error? Minutes before the start, and far too late to do much about it, a chat with one of the race organisers had uncovered that I was carrying too much water, something I casually dismissed initially – better too much than too little I thought; however, the weight was not something I had considered – my backpack loaded with a bladder and two bottles, my belt loaded with a further two, added up to almost 5 kilograms!
Imposter syndrome
So, there I was: a noob (as my son would say…!), a novice, a fraud, waddling in the mud amongst elite athletes, peak performers, mountain goats – leaping over jagged rocks, zipping through the fields, soon out of sight. And as we ascended, the mist descended, not heavy, but wispy, swirling with grace and menace, adding an extra layer of complexity to the navigation. I desperately tried to keep pace with the gaggle of runners in front of me to avoid being cut adrift and having to rely on my own highly questionable directional skills.
Later in the race, I would reflect on this moment and laugh a little – how many times have you been there in business, in life? Asked to present in front of company directors, chair a meeting, stand on stage and impart your wisdom – total imposter syndrome! That primitive, chimp part of your brain controlling fight or flight response, screaming “Don’t do it! You’re not good enough!” The human brain is such a paradox: on one hand, wondrously complex: calculator, empathiser, rationaliser and on the other, so stupid! I suppose our ancestors were grateful when their fight or flight response kicked in as it likely saved them from being eaten by some beast; yet the same reflex now kicks in when we must stand on stage and speak. In running, as in life, the aim is to stay in the game until that feeling subsides, one foot in front of the other until things normalise.
Flying up hill and down dale
Sure enough, that panicky rock riddled climb out of the village soon gave way to flatter, more runnable terrain; the mist lifted, literally and figuratively; my mind, and body started to settle a little, to find a cadence, a rhythm, a way through. So ensued that period of plain sailing – if it was life, it would be mid-life: the shock of the first mortgage leaving your bank account is well in the past, long-term partner in tow, maybe you’re finally getting enough sleep now that your offspring are more PlayStation than Playdoh, parents getting older but still in relatively good health, making decent money – that was me on the Cam Road descent down to Horton in Ribblesdale (if you’ve ever walked the Yorkshire Three Peaks, you’re remember this as the set off point). A few words of mutual encouragement exchanged when I occasionally passed a struggling co-competitor, a sausage roll and a banana boost, water weight gradually being shed, even a sneaky glance over at the dramatic beauty of the evolving landscape – always risky to look anywhere but at your feet when running along an ancient and ill maintained Roman road like Cam Road – yes, suffice to say, I was flying!
Segment for success
Now although, admittedly, the terrain was easier here, I had employed one of my favourite mental tricks at this stage of the race: segmenting. To count down the miles from 31.7 to 0 would be mentally crushing (save counting down until 8-10 miles from the end) and to count up, even worse! Segmenting is a trick I often use at work – breaking a task down into manageable chunks makes it seem more achievable, giving chance to celebrate the little wins along the way and avoid overwhelm, increasing the chance of completing the task and not sacking it off as insurmountable. Exactly the same here – unexpected water-related and hellishly hilly-start aside, I knew that the first half of the run would be my strongest section. Most of my training runs had been 6-16 miles making me comfortable at this distance; and so, 15 miles was chosen as my first segment, and one which I completed with relative ease, flying down the hill into Horton in Ribblesdale with the added incentive of knowing that my family were there to meet me at this half way stage (“you’re looking good”, “half-way already”, you’re smashing it” and the like). Even the giant Pen Y Ghent – a mountainous 2277 feet of limestone and millstone grit, was unable to derail me – my reticence to slide into 6th gear on the decent for feel of tripping and impaling myself on a jagged slab, being the only thing holding me back – 21 miles down!
The pain cave
Of course, the good times don’t roll forever. With the euphoria of seeing my family behind me, I was now faced with the final two segments, roughly six miles each – miles 20 to 32, me going uphill, wind coming down the hill. One of the key aspects to consider when training for anything of marathon length or longer is nutrition. You can get by running a 10k or half marathon without worrying too much about what to eat as your body can store enough carbs in your liver and muscles to see you through; however, running for 7+ hours and you’re going to need a supply of energy dense and easy-to-consume (and transport) foods. Up until then I felt I had managed my energy requirements well, avoiding the dreaded “bonk” – depleting your carb stores to much that you struggle move at all; but now, the combination of gradual ascent, tired legs and a lack of desire to eat (despite desperately needing to) struck. Nutrition on the run is a capricious beast! You fancy sugar but then you stomach rejects that after a while and you feel sick; starchy carbs are your thing, but then you become jaded – bored with bland brown and beige. And so, here it was, I always knew that it would come at some stage – the “pain cave”, the part of the race where I would question whether I could carry on. Stuffing a pork pie down my neck, I could barely maintain any sort of consistency – ambling along for 20 metres before stopping, hand on knees, hunched over like an ailing boxer, desperately trying to recover energy levels before the next round. I looked around. No one. For miles. And miles. It took all I had to keep putting one foot in front of the other, until there it was, on the horizon, it started off as a white spot at the road junction, until I could make out some smaller spots moving around like ants. And a camper van! The last check point was in view – a haven of support, friendly humans dashing around offering food, drink, medical aid and even chairs! Down I flopped, unburdening my woes upon the remarkably receptive and counsellor-esque event support team (thanks Ranger Ultras!), who had undoubtedly seen and heard it all before, many times.
You got a friend in me
I have MANY faults and weaknesses (navigation being one 😉) but, I’ve never been a “lone wolf”, always preferring the company of others to being on my own. Very often, I’ll attend a work conference or event alone, only to end up spending the day with someone I got chatting to. I’m more likely to ask for help when struggling with something I don’t understand rather than labour on, too stubborn or proud to seek advice. And now, as I found excuses to stay put, entrenched on that bastion of comfort (otherwise known as a deckchair) as my hareem of support slaves busied themselves around me, that character trait would float beautifully to the surface of my consciousness, as I turned to look down the track to see the next runner coming in to camp, looking in far better shape than I did – a familiar face.
Becky and I had passed each other several times during the race so far, running sections together before one of us would speed off to hit the next hill with gusto, or slow down to refuel with a sandwich, exchanging stories of training runs, previous races, successes and dramas. That had been a nice distraction from the rigours of the task in hand but now, some company throughout the final six miles was more a necessity than a “nice to have”! As we staggered in through the doors of Hawes Market Hall to register our surrender on 50 kilometres of pain, I’ll never know if I would have completed that final fling alone; however, what I am sure of is that comparing notes on chafing, chatting nonsense about work, family and life (as well as her watch beeping helpfully every time we got distracted and missed a turn) certainly made those unbearable last miles much more bearable.
Ruminations on running and life
Two months have now passed since the event and I have had time to reflect, so, what exactly was 31.7 miles (or 50K), 5,171 feet of elevation, 7.5 hours of putting one foot in front of the other for exactly? Well, just like with any of life’s achievements, I was left immensely proud – apparently only 0.007% of the world’s population have done an ultra-marathon, the other 99.993% must value their toenails and free time too much. I also managed to raise £800 for Employment Autism, which is immense!
But I have learned that staying in my comfort zone is not for me – both personally and professionally, I yearn for new challenges. As young people, to a certain extent, that’s all mapped out for us: school is non-negotiable and provides challenge, we’re railroaded into extra-curricular activities, some stick, others fall away, but then, we reach an age where we can freewheel – lives, husbands and wives, kids and the 9 ‘till 5 get in the way; the brain will always seek out the easiest option to conserve energy, rarely pushing you to go for a run on a freezing December night, always recommending Netflix in your dressing gown. But then, when adversity hits, you find that mental resilience muscle underdeveloped, weak, without tone, unused since your teenage years. Stand outside vital support groups like Andy’s Mann Club and see how many 35 – 55-year-old men walk in. Of course, everyone has a different story and I’m not saying that challenging yourself is a miracle cure for mid-life mental health issues but, what I do know is this: because of challenging myself physically through running, I have been able to accomplish so much more in my professional life. Because of challenging myself professionally, I have been able to push myself physically even more.
(big thanks also to the superhuman who is David Locke, who spent the first mile with me, before speeding off to finish well ahead (I blame the water…)