There had been no rain during the night and with yesterday’s clothes drying session we were now, for the first time dressed in dry race kit.
The short walk to the start line made a pleasant change from the damp drive we had become used to.
After a quick few words and some last minute and up to date instructions, we were informed that it was forecast to be sunny and warm!
The track was well-used and ideal for running, as usual the racing snakes raced ahead and were out of sight within minutes.
We mediocre runners plodded along trying to get the pacing right - 58km was a long way and if the sun was out to do its worst we were in for a long day. It was not the day for ‘cockups’.
I found myself running alongside a German runner, a runner I had not really seen but then owing to the self imposed ‘hibernation’ we had thus far enjoyed, it wasn’t surprising. I’m sure a few more new faces would appear now that the relentless rain had stopped, which in turn had released us from our small damp and somewhat smelly - hideaways.
After about half an hour my running partner seemed to be getting slower, 20 minutes later I approached an ‘unofficial checkpoint’ a couple of the race crew were pointing us in the right direction.
After about 20 minutes we were negotiating our way across streams and little rivers then all of a sudden - checkpoint 1.
A quick top up of water, a clamber up a steep bank and back onto the trail proper. Running along, I was aware of a runner approaching from behind. When they drew level it was Richard, we plodded along together for a while, chatting and then we spotted checkpoint 2. Again, a quick top up and some instructions from the crew on how to proceed to the next checkpoint, which was basically to follow a main road and we would see it!
Leaving the checkpoint, Richard started to ever so slowly pull away. I tried to follow but failed miserably, deciding instead to keep him in sight. This road was long and monotonous, one of those that you could see for miles ahead and the horizon never seemed to alter - a bit like running on a treadmill, bloody frustrating.
It was only the fact that I had a runner ahead to focus on that kept me running, had Richard not been within sight I would in all likelihood have started walking, moaning and cursing my stupidity for once again signing up to do some stupid, pointless race.
These thoughts are common and frequent. I think every ‘ultra’ race I have done has been my last, “never again” is a recurring theme and at the time I’m usually suffering and in pain, but I am, at the time, deadly serious. As is the amount of checkpoints I have approached with the very genuine intention to stop upon arrival.
But for some reason I have yet to fathom, I leave the checkpoint promising that, at the next one, I’ll stop.
I would like to think that it’s pride but it is probably nearer the truth to say it’s a mixture of cowardice and stupidity!
I am also fully aware that, no matter how painful the race is, it will stop, the pain will end. However, not finishing will be fucking painful and that pain will be permanent, always there, gnawing away!
So on I plod.
Following the road, which was now starting to get harder because of the fact that we were now climbing, Richard, who was probably 750 meters ahead, disappeared over the summit of the hill. Once I reached the summit I could just make out what I hoped was the next checkpoint.
I ran trying to keep the ‘checkpoint’ and Richard in sight and as I got nearer I was able to confirm that it was indeed the checkpoint.
I reached the checkpoint just as Richard was leaving. A quick couple of electrolyte drinks and I also left.
It was now getting hot and for the first time it actually felt like a desert race: clear blue skies, scorching hot sunshine and dunes, actual sand dunes. Though we were running on rocky tracks the dunes were just to our right and they were huge - the thought of actually having to climb one filled me with dread, these ‘huge’ dunes were nothing compared to the Monster dune 45 and Big Daddy the name of the dunes we were supposed to climb later.
As I ran along, I noticed that Richard had turned around a couple of times. Was he suffering, was he checking on me? I wasn’t sure and besides, it didn’t make a bit of difference. I was struggling, my legs were tired, so much so that I decided to walk for a minute or two. As I started walking, Richard turned around and then he also started walking - at that moment I realised that we were both using each other. He didn’t want me to catch him and I didn’t want to lose sight of him. We had, it seemed, reached a sort of understanding.
We carried on like this until the next checkpoint came into view. When I finally reached the checkpoint, Richard was still there, receiving instructions on how to proceed. I listened to the instructions, which were vague, to say the least. One of the crew sort of pointed over to his right and, with a generous sweep of his arm (which seemed to cover a 15 to 20 mile radius), explained that the road was over in that direction and we should hit the road and follow it along until the next checkpoint.
We left the checkpoint together, not because of any budding friendship or mutual respect but because I’m sure that, like me, Richard hadn’t got a clue what he was on about - at least together we might just figure it out.
We ran side by side, trying to see footprints of the previous runners, but nothing.
This whole area had recently been flooded, silt and sand mixed together, the going was tricky and wet. Soft ground that required a degree of concentration lest you step onto an ankledeep extra-soft bit.
We carried on like this for some time, then way ahead movement, a reflection, a vehicle. We both saw it and realised that it was the sun shining off a windscreen.
Richard increased his speed. I tried and failed.
As we got nearer to where the reflection was seen, another one appeared and then, suddenly, just ahead of us was the road. I was glad Richard was ahead because if I had been here on my own, I would have had to have guessed: left or right (and I would have probably picked the wrong one!).
The road was in excellent condition and it was mighty tempting to run along it, but common sense prevailed and I started to run along the side. It was another one of those long, straight roads that was just demoralising. The only thing that helped break up the monotony was the sight of springbok and oryx and the fact that to our left were dunes - row after row of dunes. The knowledge that we were to climb to the top of one of them, but not just any one, the BIGGEST one, played heavily on my mind.
We ran along and the occasional car would speed past, then up ahead I spotted the checkpoint. Normally I would say finish line but this was a finish line with a difference. Once you crossed it you were given instructions to carry on and climb the worlds biggest dune, Dune 45, so named because of its position at 45 km along the road that connects Sesiem Gate to Sossusviel.
I reached the phantom finish line a couple of minutes behind Richard, who was now clambering up the side of the 170 meter monster, Dune 45.
I looked up and wished that I hadn’t:- it was so steep that the summit was out of sight. I had a quick drink and started my ascent, after about two-thirds of the way up, Richard passed me on his way down, wearing a silly grin. He knew he was just about finished. I carried on, looked up, and realised that the last little bit had a severe kick in it - a really steep bit - on the top of which was a flag.
I reached the flag, grabbed a sticker of a smiley face (proof of reaching the summit), then I made my way back down.
I reached the bottom, handed in my sticker and grabbed the nearest chair. Sitting there, I noticed that a small crowd had gathered a few yards away from our checkpoint and a few of the guys seemed fascinated by what was going on, I moved closer to see for myself what the fascination was and, low and behold, there was a stunningly beautiful woman having her picture taken, she was dressed in the sexiest, skimpiest lingerie. A magazine photo shoot, using the desert dunes as a backdrop. It was, I decided, almost worth running the 58 km to study the photographer’s art!
THE LAST DAY
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Woke up after an uncomfortable night.
Feeling not quite right, tired and with a slightly upset stomach. Nothing had happened - it just felt like that the moment I start to run, something unpleasant would happen. The situation was delicate to say the least. I tried to sort things out before I got to the start line but nothing.
The only thing I could do was to start today’s run with plenty of toilet paper and a little prayer!
Whilst standing on the start line, listening to the race briefing, I got the distinct impression that the organisers had only a rough idea of how long and where the route would be: they seemed to be playing it very much by ear.
We finally boarded the coaches for the start of our last day, still not really knowing how far we would be running, but it was the last day.
Once we arrived we were given last minute final instructions. The first 8 to 10 km were flat, normally a good thing. However, today I was looking for an escape route should an emergency arise and the upset stomach decided to give me what for.
There was nothing, nowhere to hide, the whole area was flat and featureless, small rocks and stones, dunes way off in the distance but nothing to hide behind. If the worst came to the worst, I would be on show, performing to all and sundry.
As the countdown began, we lined up, wished each other luck and then the 3 2 1 and we trotted off. I deliberately started slowly, just testing things out, after a couple of kms I felt confident enough to pick up the pace.
After a while, I had that uncomfortable bloated, I need to go feeling-was I flatulent or was I poorly? Do I or don’t I? a terrible dilemma and one I’m sure we have all experienced at one time or other, should I or shouldn’t I? Decision made and fortunately it was the right decision - flatulence and with it instant relief, I felt so much better and was consequently able to both relax and pick up the pace.
After about 10km the flat terrain came to an end right at the foot of a dune and then it was another monumental lung-bursting effort to clamber over the thing.
Once over the top, I could see the first checkpoint and Richard. We left the checkpoint together after being given a bit of advice. “Go around and not across, the dried up lake.”
We were in some sort of basin and it was obvious that this basin had been flooded and full of water not long ago. Skirting around the thing took so much longer but looking at the footprints of a couple of the lead runners it was pretty obvious that they had tried the shortcut and failed, as the footprints had brought them back to the skirting around route.
We carried on around the edge and we were fully aware that the heat in this basin was magnified - it was incredibly hot and there was virtually nowhere to escape, it was a question of just getting out as quickly as possible.
As we plodded along we suddenly spotted one of the race crew, desperately trying to get some shade under a small bushy shrub. So small was it that it just about reached my knees, I couldn’t blame her, the sun was relentless and where we were it was extremely exposed. Being in a bowl-like depression it seemed to bounce off the surface making it even hotter.
The poor girl was slowly cooking, but she smiled, said we were doing well and pointed us in the right direction.
The right direction just happened to be a very nasty-looking steep dune. We made our way over - on closer inspection it was worse than it had first appeared. The angle was such that you could not see the top. I plodded on, using my hands as much as I was using my feet - slow short steps, inch by lung-bursting inch we moved forward. Then we heard a voice telling us that we were nearly there, I couldn’t even look up to see from where it was that the voice came. Then the top and the source of the mysterious voice: one of the race crew was on the top and giving directions whilst filming (you can see me and Richard descending the dune, on Youtube NDC 2012 In the dunes, Richard in blue me in white!), we followed his instructions, which were, fortunately, fairly simple - basically we were to descend this one climb the next one and follow the ridge line until we came across another member of the race crew who would then give us more directions to follow.
This continued until we came across a crew member who said that the finish line was just around the corner, and so it was 500 meters later that we crossed the finish line together.
I loved this race, with its static campsite, being fed and watered at the end of each day, power sockets and showers. A great first time desert race - well organised and worth every penny.
WHAT NEXT?
Here we go again. I was cold and my clothes were damp. Rain was forecast. I love desert races!
Coming off one of the world’s biggest sand dunes, Dune 45, I wasn’t smiling on my way up!
THE WINTER 100 2012
What is it: A 100 mile trail race
When: November
Where: Starts from Streatley, Berkshire
Distance: 100 miles
It is: A race that consists of four out and back spurs
See: centurionrunning.com
This race was very much a part of my preparation for the 6633 Ultra, which was to take place in March.
I hadn’t planned to race the Winter 100, but simply collect the miles and get myself ‘match fit’ for the 6633.
Unfortunately, for us, for a few days prior to the race it had rained, really rained, so much so that large parts of the country were flooded. Flood warnings were issued and the scheduled Winter 100 race course had not escaped.
Arriving at the hotel in Streatley-On-Thames the night before and the outlook did not look good - it was still raining and the forecast was more rain.
During the race briefing, we were informed that large parts of the original route had now been changed as most of it was under water and the bits that weren’t would in, all likelihood, soon would be.
We were given new routes and new instructions, however, there was a very real chance that these new changes could themselves be changed. In other words, no-one, even the race director, didn’t really know what the final route would be.
Fortunately for Ultra-Distance Race organisers, ultra runners are a peculiar breed - all they really need is for someone to point them in the right direction and let them go. Not one runner complained, the very nature of the sport seems to attract the sort of personality that sees a problem or obstacle as simply that: a problem that needs to be solved or overcome.
With the talking finally over, it was time to don wet weather gear, Gortex trainers and sealskin gloves. A multi-coloured group of slightly apprehensive, damp runners stood on the start line, listening to the rhythmic slapping of raindrops hitting the fabric of the soon to be tested wet weather gear. I put my hood up, in the rather forlorn hope of keeping dry, but the noise of rain hitting the flimsy material was just amplified. I couldn’t hear myself think let alone hear the countdown that was now taking place.
As the slow procession of anxious runners made their way through Streatley, nervous conversations took place. Previous races were spoken off and compared. After about twenty minutes or so the procession became a little strung out and the talking stopped.
Once we got out of Streatley the real racing snakes took off, us more mediocre runners plodded along the quagmire trying desperately trying to avoid the now churned-up, squelching, muddy route. Crossing fields and running through villages, then shortly before I got to the turnaround point, the lead runners were already heading toward me.
The return journey was a little worse than the initial outward run, the fields and narrow paths were now churned up and sticky underfoot. Horrible, heavy glue-like mud stuck to the underside of the shoes, slightly annoying but it did make for some rather interesting styles of locomotion. Hobbling, waddling, duck-like plodding could be seen, inching across what I guessed had once been a field, but now appeared to be more like a lagoon.
Arriving at the race HQ back in Streatley, I was pleased to have survived - everything was wet, even my super-duper, really expensive storm-proof wet weather gear couldn’t cope with the onslaught of a real British downpo
ur. Some of the other runners were not having a good time, there were a few sullen faces and shivering bloodied bodies. People had been slipping and sliding their way to the checkpoint, some were covered in scratches and grazes, the expressions etched on their faces encouraged me to get going. I was starting to get cold and I knew that if people started dropping out it could have a domino effect, at least if I got going I would warm up and not be witness (or get tempted to follow) to what I thought might happen (a mass exodus) and drop out.
I reluctantly left the warmth of race HQ and made my way out of Streatley, following, for several miles the same route that we had for the first loop - then a quick right hand turn, I slipped, moaned, carried on and promptly slipped again.
It was now dark, and with cloud-covered skies, was even darker: black as a witch’s tit as they say. I followed the trail which led me into some trees, the relief was immediate - I was at last out of the wind.
My pace had slowed as self-preservation took over. I had to be cautious, being a cowardy-custard meant that I was being super careful.
The downside of having adopted a more sensible pace was that I was now getting cold. The terrain was tricky to follow but the sodden ground made things a whole lot worse and for the umpteenth time I went over. I was beginning not to enjoy myself. I have done races where I have been cold, tired, struggled with the terrain, not sure where I’m going, injured and in pain and on a couple of occasions I could have even cried but never have I been as fed up and pissed off as I was with the constant slipping over. What was preying on my mind was injury, I really could not afford to get injured. I could cope with the odd scratch, lumps and bumps but my main priority, and the only reason I was taking part in this race, was as part of my preparation for the 6633 Ultra, 15 weeks from now.
It was while I was mulling this over that I reached the Swyncombe farm checkpoint. I instantly felt more sorry for the crew, than I did myself. This checkpoint was, unfortunately, a tent. It was now just a sodden windblown excuse for a tent, for poor crew were bravely trying to help us, when the fact of the matter was they were as wet and quite possibly colder than us. At least we could get moving and warm up - they were static. I felt guilty for feeling sorry for myself, put on an extra top and left.
Fartleks & Flatulence Page 22