Fartleks & Flatulence

by Berridge, David

  According to the race briefing we would now start descending. I think each of us was pleased. With the two days altitude training we had just done I was hoping that my overall speed would improve, ever the optimist me!

  Now you would think with the acclimatisation of the previous two days and the fact that we were descending ie. indulging in a gravity-assisted run, we would fly down. Unfortunately, the severity of the descent required absolute concentration, something that for me has always been in short supply. The constant descending was costing:- my poor old toes were taking a real bashing constantly smacking the front of my trainers.

  The lower down we got the more lush and green the area became with bamboos and rhododendrons offering some much welcome shade.

  Passing through small populated areas and negotiating small narrow paths again required a bit of concentration and at one point I reached a bottleneck and had to give way to a small herd of oxen and their handler. So narrow was this section that they brushed my legs as I frantically clung on to some overhanging vegetation!

  Once they were clear I carried on, the descent finally levelled out and I could hear the distinct sound of fast-flowing water. My imagination ran riot with thoughts of wading across fast-flowing deep rivers or, worse, swimming across. Hopefully there would be one of those rickety old rope bridges that swing when used and if we did have to cross over on an old rope bridge would I bottle it?

  As I turned right, there in front of me was a pretty modern solid-looking steel bridge. Once across I tried to pick up the pace but all this achieved was that I stubbed my toes more often - my poor old toes were by this time really tender and each time I stubbed them I could have cried.

  I plodded on and rounding a corner spotted the finishing line. I crossed the line in 11th place. I was pleased, pleased that it seemed to be the altitude that was slowing me down and not my incompetence.

  The finish line/race HQ was at a tea house. I collected my kit bag and was shown to my room which was actually someone’s bedroom.

  I settled in and examined my feet. Though blister-free, all the toes were red raw and angry looking, battered and bashed. They would no doubt be bruised by the morning, even the nails hurt.

  Once all the runners were in we were again treated to a fantastic meal, with a large communal bonfire blazing away. We all sat around while some of the staff sang and danced. There were some trekkers there who were astounded to hear that we had run from Mannybayang to Sandakphu in a single day:- it had taken them three days to do the same route.

  13/11/98

  DAY 8

  Today’s section was a relatively short half-marathon and we were consequently treated to a bit of a late start:- 11:00.

  However, the habit of getting up at ‘daft o’clock’ in the morning proved too difficult a habit to break so I was still up bright and early.

  I had a walk around the small but very busy little village and found a postbox so posted some postcards. As I write this in 2013 the postcards have still not arrived.

  At 11:00 we all stood on the start line, my toes were sore and just like I had done at the Marathon des Sables start lines I was trying to protect them from being trodden on.

  Other than my toes I felt pretty good, legs were a bit stiff and felt well used but after running 70 miles in the Himalayas that was to be expected. Unlike some of the others I had no blisters, headaches or nausea, so let battle commence!

  Once we were underway it was immediately time to switch on:- the descents were tricky, technical, cruel and unforgiving especially to tender toes.

  The whole area was extremely hilly, so hilly in fact the buildings were built half on terra firma and half on stilts. There was literally not enough flat ground to build a whole building on.

  Running along the road I had to move over as spread out over the road was some tarpaulins with various produce drying in the sun. Also, any passing traffic would do the crushing that was needed by running over the stuff.

  The first 8-9 miles was composed of mainly tricky steep switchbacks but then the terrain slowly changed very gently and almost without noticing we started to climb and climb with the last couple of miles as steep as anything we had thus far encountered - in other words fucking steep, knee-grabbing, lung-busting, heart racing self-inflicted masochism.

  I eventually crossed the finishing line in a time of 2:05hrs.

  The evening was again a fantastic meal and great entertainment but the runners were becoming a little jaded - too jaded to join in.

  14/11/98

  DAY 9

  The last day’s running was some 17 miles long. The finish line was at the start in Manybayang.

  The atmosphere on the start line for this last day’s running was a lot more relaxed with a lot more jovial chatter. The pressure was off:- the completion of the Himalayan 100 mile race was now just a formality, people could afford to relax a bit.

  Three, two, one and we were off, the ground on which we were running was the best so far:- a well-maintained ‘road’, nice and hard, smooth underfoot. However, my tender feet didn’t really appreciate the constant pounding and again complained.

  To override the pain I employed the same tactic as I had during the ‘Marathon des Sables’:- keep the runner in front in sight - this gave me something to concentrate on other than my painful feet - it seemed to work as the miles slipped by.

  It was another gorgeous crisp day with clear blue skies. Eventually I rounded a corner and could hear in the distance clapping and cheering. A few moments later the finish line came into view - I finally crossed the finish line.

  I had come 16th overall, thoroughly enjoyed the Race and would recommend it to anyone considering having a go.

  It was tough, yes, but survive the first couple of days and you should, with a little bit of luck, finish.

  As I said earlier the ‘Himalayan 100’ is so much more than a running race - it really is a fantastic experience.

  And, more importantly, I still had my complimentary bottle of Champagne.

  WHAT NEXT?

  The finish line

  Caught walking through the clouds

  Another day at the office

  THE JORDAN DESERT CUP 2001

  What is it: A single stage Desert Footrace

  When: November 2001

  Where: Jordan, Wadi Rum-Petra

  Distance: 106 miles (170km)

  It is: A great race, 60 miles of sand, the remainder in the mountains - either way it hurts!

  See: darbaroud.com

  222 STARTERS 41 DNFS

  Arriving at the airport at Amman I found myself going through my now familiar routine of trying to spot likely Jordan Desert Cup competitors.

  This race was organised by Patrick Bauers - the same bloke who organises the Marathon Des Sables. This race was different in that, unlike the MDS, it was just one stage:- start and don’t stop until you reach the finish line some 168 kms away.

  Whilst looking around for the other like-minded lunatics I spotted Indiana Jones, aka Lloyd Scott. I had met Lloyd during our participation in the MDS. Lloyd was a phenomenal athlete, a former fireman, who had survived cancer and now raised funds for charity by taking part in extreme endurance events all over the world - a very tough if not slightly eccentric bloke.

  Since I had last seen him he had had a bone marrow transplant and a hip replacement. He was, he told me, going to run the Jordan Desert Cup dressed as Indiana Jones including leather jacket, shirt, tie, trilby and the entire Elton John CD collection! These were after all, the days before the iPod!!

  The British contingent arrived at Wadi Rum at 03:30. The whole camp was asleep and all available space seemed to have been taken so a bit of sneaking about was required:- a rearranging of peoples’ kit bags, squeezing into any space that was wider than 8 inches, a diplomatic cough or two and I was in - sort of.

  After what appeared to be a two minute sleep we were up and getting organised. First, over to the kit-check tent making sure we had all the compulsory food and
safety equipment, ie torch, compass, whistle, emergency supplies etc.

  That done it was off to the medical tent, ECG and Doctors note handed in, a few questions regarding medical history and I was good to go. Lloyd, however, was a different kettle of fish. First the French crew had tried to explain to him that he was supposed to be wearing his race kit not a trilby, shirt, tie, leather jacket and chino trousers (they accepted the training shoes he had on).

  It took a lot of explaining and much head-scratching before they realised that “the crazy English bloke” was actually going to try and run the Jordan Desert Cup in fancy dress!

  On to the medical tent. Lloyd, standing in front of the Doctors dressed as Indiana Jones proceeded to give them a medical history:- fire-damaged lungs (from his time in the fire service) hip replacement, bone marrow recipient and cancer survivor. I think all diplomatic relations were now severely strained and the Entente Cordiale that our two countries had thus far enjoyed was beginning to look decidedly shaky!

  I think they let him proceed fully expecting the “Lunatic Brit” to last the first day before admitting defeat.

  THURSDAY 7/11/01

  After a long sleepless night we were up early. I attempted to eat breakfast and failed miserably. Got dressed, packed the rucksack and prepared the feet. With memories of the MDS still fresh in my memory, I knew that it was absolutely imperative to look after my feet. I had bought some small ankle gaiters and a large pot of Vaseline. I applied the Vaseline to anywhere I was likely to get friction and when I say anywhere, I really do mean anywhere. I put the ankle gaiters on and duct taped them into place: no sand, grit or gravel was getting in to my shoes this time.

  All sorted out and ready to go, a short walk to the start line and I was already knackered - the super soft sand and racing heart rate I’m sure didn’t help matters. Looking around at the others I couldn’t help but ask myself - why does everyone else manage to have smaller, lighter packs than mine?

  Once again here I was standing at the start line, hopelessly out of my depth, thinking to myself what the hell am I doing here? I’m a wannabe, I don’t belong, square pegs and round holes, this race is for only proper athletes only and I’ll get found out soon enough. Realising that it was now too late to do anything about it, I put those thoughts to one side and was busy listening to the excited and nervous chatter. Final instructions were given in multi languages - French, English and Japanese to name but three.

  At bang on 08:30 we were off. CP1 was some 13km away and I managed to run the whole way. A 13km run easy? Wrong, running on super fine sand is anything but easy:- your feet go into the sand not onto the sand - real energy sapping stuff.

  Leaving the first CP shortly after arriving, it was straight onto the next. Once again it was real knackering sand running. I still managed to run most of it but my poor old legs were letting me know that they weren’t happy! At CP2 I decided to get rid of any items I thought I wouldn’t need ie cooking fuel and foodstuffs. I wasn’t the only one judging by the already overflowing bins. I was being fairly cautious in the amount I jettisoned, keeping just enough to get me to the finish line.

  Onto CP3, a mixture of running and walking, about 60-40 in favour of walking. Finally I arrived. It was at this CP that the enormity of the race began to sink in. I was filled with negative thoughts about how I felt, the weight of my pack, the distance left, the difficulty of the terrain. Negative thoughts are without doubt the worst thing any Ultra-distance racer can have:- they start to erode away at your confidence, try to convince you to stop, suggest any reason to stop, from sore feet, too far to go, the heat, the cold, the pack is too heavy, you haven’t got enough food, you’re going too slow. The list is endless and your imagination adds to the list until you agree with something or other, anything that tells you to stop, because stopping is really the only sensible thing to do, the easy thing to do, the right thing to do.

  I left CP3 and I left the negative thoughts there. I already had enough to carry. I wasn’t doing too badly, some people looked bloody awful (with hindsight I probably looked bloody awful too).

  From CP3 to CP4 I switched off, had tunnel vision and became very focused. I followed the path and I followed the runners ahead. I didn’t sightsee or daydream like I normally do. I was struggling and tired and sightseeing was a luxury I could ill afford. I really remember nothing of note except footprints in the sand and the rucksack belonging to the runner ahead. I now just focused on getting to CP4 - nothing else mattered except the next CP.

  I eventually arrived, collected some water and left. Plodding along, feeling sorry for myself, I decided that at CP5 I would have a rest. Unfortunately when I arrived I found very little space in the tent, it seems everyone else felt as knackered as me. I got my sleeping bag out and climbed in. An hour and a half after arriving I left. It was too bloody cold to sleep, I just laid there shivering, listening to somebody coughing and farting and someone else tossing and turning while wearing a tin foil space blanket. The noises were enough to get me up - I also reasoned that the energy I was using to shiver would be better spent on getting me to the finish line! I left CP5 feeling tired and a little anxious:- would I make it and where’s my “bum bag?” The little bag worn around my waist containing some food, glucose tablets, small pencil torch and various bits and pieces needed whilst on the move, bollocks, must have left it at CP5. Too late now, pillock, I gave myself a verbal kick up the arse, get on with it and told myself in no uncertain terms to stop moaning!

  I was now left with my emergency rations which, if opened, would disqualify me from the race so all I had to eat were two-thirds of a packet of jelly babies, half a packet of fruit pastilles and a packet of glucose sweets.

  My already shattered confidence took another knock when I spoke to a fellow British runner who was extremely concerned that he might not have enough food despite having bags of the stuff.

  I plodded on to CP6. I arrived at this CP safe in the knowledge that I would not have to make the decision to ‘pull out’, that decision was already made by the fact that I had so little food it would be virtually impossible to complete such an extreme race.

  It was only this fact that got me out of CP6 - too much of a ‘chicken’ to make the decision myself, I would wait until lack of nutrition and energy forced me out!

  I plodded on to CP7, another quick stop and I was off to CP8. It was now taking between 2:5 and 3 hours to reach each CP.

  CP8 in and out. The difficulty I had in getting to CP9 was worrying, this must surely be as hard as it gets, it must get easier from here on in - wrong!

  The difficulty I experienced between CP9 and 10 was one of frustration and exasperation. The terrain seemed to be full of ‘switchbacks’ zigzagging all over the place. To move forward a mile (as the crow flies) you seemed to be doing two or three. You look ahead and see someone apparently quite close and within catching distance only to realise that they were actually 3 or 4 miles away, absolutely soul-destroying.

  My ability to judge time, distance and terrain were now non-existent. Ah well, head down, one foot in front of the other and get on with it.

  Time for a treat: a couple of jelly babies, a glucose sweet and a sip of Lucozade sports drink and all was once again well in David’s world.

  When I finally reached CP10 it was with relief and this relief was helped by the fact that a few of the competitors not only looked bloody awful but were very vocal in their description of that last section. Expressions like “well that was BOLLOCKS” and the “fuckers are trying to break us, bastards”.

  I had a giggle, a drink and a 20 minute break and I was off. I left this CP and for the first time actually believed I could finish! Then bugger me if the terrain didn’t get harder. We had now just about finished with the sand but were into the mountains. On leaving the CP we were immediately greeted with a climb, well, a climb and a half. It was relentless, constant and bloody hot.

  But with 10 CPs done, just 3 remained. I reasoned that it would be cooler the higher we
climbed and the worry of not enough food was for now not an issue. I wasn’t hungry and felt reasonably strong. If I was suddenly attacked by pangs of hunger I would be more or less at CP 11, I’d have a rest and hopefully survive the last 2 CPs (ever the optimist!).

  However, in the meantime I had to get CP 11. This was proving somewhat challenging, with some impressive and saucy climbs. The moment you left the CP you were climbing and a 1500 meter climb is always a challenge - even more so after a 135 or so kilometers of running through sandy desert, little sleep and very little to eat!

  But onward and upward - keep going put one foot in front of the other. The climbing continued and then sort of levelled out. It was now late afternoon and I started to look hard for where the next CP was, with more optimism than realism, and besides, it gave me something to do and took my mind off the monotony of the terrain. Beautiful it may be but it was, at this point in time, just an obstacle to overcome!

  Scanning the horizon ahead I saw nothing, then turning my head slightly to the right and down in a shallow depression there it was CP 11, 11 down 2 to go!

  It was now 6 o’ clock in the evening. I collected some water, ate 3 fruit pastilles, a jelly baby and a dextorol glucose sweet, put some warm clothes on, head torch and hat and I was then good to go. I left at 6:25.

  So far, apart from one 20 minute stint, I had been on my own - only ever seeing the person ahead and that’s if I was lucky. I refuse to look behind me during these races:- it serves no practical purpose. If I am going to get caught then so be it. I’m doing the best I can and it takes all my concentration to move myself forward. Worrying about things I have no control over is a pretty pointless exercise.