62. The Main Event - Blow by Blow

It had finally arrived. The Jurassic Coast Challenge. A 100km course with 9000ft of ascent, a new route, and thousands of eager Competitors, runners, joggers (me) and walkers. There were people doing the first half marathon, first 42k Marathon, first 58km Ultra, Last 42k Marathon, the full distance across 2 days (58 then 42 while stopping overnight) and of course the crazies... those of us taking on the full 100 non-stop.

If you've never done anything like this, or are thinking about your own epic challenge, this post (while long) will give you a sense of what it is like to take something like this on and what you go through. If you've already done something similar, you will no doubt smile, nod your head and understand (and sympathise) much of it.

Here's the thing. Unless you've tried something like this it's hard to really know what It takes, and that's what the blog has been about. It's about the journey as much as the destination, and this was what it has been all about. All the training. The eating. The weight loss. The tracking. The measuring. The rehab. The injuries. The kit. The stretching. The learning. The ups. The downs. And the blogging. :-)

...All of which was just to get me to the starting line. Was I ready? ...Fuck yeah.

I travelled down there with two of the best people I could imagine doing something like this with in Graham and James who were hiking the challenge. Graham, especially knows how much I've put into this for me to even contemplate jogging this route, and was especially supportive (and patient) of me throughout all of this journey. In fact, he was the reason I started this madness in the first place. I'm not sure whether to thank him or kick him given how I feel right now, though ;-).

That said, if you are reading this G, you are a very special friend and i love you, man!

The banter, the laughs, the pep talks all essential to get you out of your own head and lighten those dark and anxious moments.

So at the start. I felt good. Despite a rough night with little sleep due to my achilles support taping being too tight from the night before and having to re-tape it at 2 in the morning in order to be up at 4am and then in the taxi at 5am, I was excited.

Even seeing the dark grey sky and the aftermath winds from the storm only a few hours before, in the morning, I felt good (and grateful I had my waterproof/windproof jacket and thermal base layers with me). It was closer to February in terms of weather than your typical late May).

The Start

Having worked so hard to get here I did my best not to let the 'Covid secure measures' get in the way. Not withstanding we had to stand in a queue for over an hour before we could register and take a seat, it wasn't helped that we were left with pretty much zero time to check gear, taping on feet, warm up or stretch before we had to get to our rolling start time. That was pretty shitty, but the organisers did their best. It was just disappointing they didn't have a quicker way to get people through as, given it was outside, it just all felt like that could have been avoided.

And all of a sudden... we were off! And all of those minor annoyances disappeared leaving us all to focus on the task at hand.

Given I was running, I said my goodbyes to the boys and ran my pace alone. It was sad to leave them, but I got over it with an energy gel and a quick turn up of the volume on my music :-)

I knew this was a very hilly course. Especially the first 58km and was not let down by the fact that within only a couple of Km we were faced with a long and fairly steep ascent. I quite enjoy these as it activates the glutes and avoids any hip aches (which i can be prone to).

As I mentioned in another post, it's not the going up that's the problem. It's the coming down! With weeks of shitty weather it was both rocky and muddy running down to the first stop point at 11km. So much so that I already had to treat a blister on my left little toe because of the way your feet move around when the going is rougher and you come down hill. This was not in my plan!

The two hills before this stop were bigger, and longer, than I anticipated so I came in to that stop a little off the pace I set in my plan.

Mike Tyson once said that everyone has a plan until you get punched in the face. He couldn't have been more right.

The blister treatment added time as well, but I found out later that I was doing pretty well. The other critical lesson from my 52k run at Easter was to use the toilets. A very wise move, as it turned out...

Stage 2

Blister 'treated' (or so I thought), We next headed out around Swanage. Wind and rain had set in and the route to Church Knowle took us off road. A new addition to the route which was shitty. Steep hills and a miserable mix of rock and mud path. Slow going and blister-making, this route was more challenging that I had realised. The picture shows large stretches of the off-road part that hit your feet hard and made for slower pace.

This is where the swearing began. Normally I'd save that for around 35km. Not this time. I was just grateful I had GoreTex footwear that was waterproof and my poles to take some of the energy out of the decsents. Despite the rough underfoot terrain I made good time to the Church Knowle stop and was pleased with my progress to 25km. Legs felt fresh but my left toe was starting to become the focus of my attention as it was constantly rubbing the inside edge of my shoe. This called for more tape and some lambs wool as it was starting to feel bruised.

Stage 3

My favourite stage. A sharp climb up on the ridge line towards Bindon Hill, and long rolling trail with stunning views. A time to jog easily and enjoy the ride.

The weather had dried out, my music was playing loudly and I felt like I had endless jogging in my legs. The views were becoming stunning, and i knew what I was soon to be facing, so thought I'd at least have this stretch to feel good on this challenge.

At 16km it's one of the longer stretches between stops and, after a while, the next part of this leg gradually loomed into view...

Arish Mell, nicknamed 'The Wall' is both stunning and monstrous. An absolute beast of a hill This is the one that has people crying halfway up it.

...And it did not disappoint. There's nothing like thinking you've got to the top and it's over, only to discover it's a false summit by the cliff's edge; and realising you have to do that same distance up all over again.

People scrambling on all fours. Taking 5 steps and needing to take a break. That this is encountered after already running 36km, is the gift that keeps on giving. I'm grateful that the ground here was drier as climbing that in the wind and rain is outright dangerous. It's a fact that's made worse by the almost vertical descent just beyond that gate in the picture, which mangles your feet, knees and back nicely just before the climb.

Once you've conquered The Wall, and it's a hell of a feeling when you do, you make the descent into Lulworth Cove and the mile of pebble beach. By the time I reached this, there was a marshal trying to send challengers up the cliff on the premise that the tide had come in. (the hill on the left of that pic). After a swift 'you can fuck right off with that' muttered under my breath, followed by a 'I don't give a shit. My GPS says that way, the other challengers went that way, and I'll swim the fucking thing if I have to so I'm goddam going to go that way', I found the tide had not come in so I duly proceeded to cross the pebble beach (at speed, I hasten to add - my mud training DEFINITELY helped with this) and reached the 42km/26 Mile Marathon distance rest stop (and finish for some challengers). I was greeted with a welcoming smile and some assisted stretching by my wife and her best friend, who then proceeded to tell me how much I smelled by this point. This made a much welcome break from how my foot felt.

Stage 4

Marathon completed, next we faced the monster section of Swyre Head, Bat Head and White Nothe... and stepping out of the rest stop there, it now dawned on me that the route had changed a little from before. Because, it wasn't already fucking hard enough, apparently, Instead of the slow rise around the Lulworth steps to Durdle Door', the moment I left the rest stop I was sent up those very steps I had hoped to avoid. And on cold legs.

...As you can see, it is a BFH... Big Fuckin' Hill, followed by 3 more BFH's in quick succession.

Starting with Swyre Head which, after 8 hours on your feet, and having just gone through what we had so far, can feel a little intimidating. Me being me, loves a challenge and decided to pile in. And, of course with it being me, my Achilles issues decided to put in an appearance... right.... about... now.

To give you a sense of context, this is Swyre Head, rising up from Durdle Door... and it is a fucking monster. Some parts are best climbed on all fours. And it hurts. A lot. That said, I just put my head down, leaned in and just kept pigeon-stepping up the bloody thing until I hit the top. Then I sat down. Slowed my breathing down until my heart rate had dropped from the 190bpm it was at.

We each have our own ways of dealing with a climb like this. This lady had her own response...

She was fine, in the end, and just needed to rest. And to weep for a minute or two. That turned out to be a wise move as we had two more shitbag climbs and descents ahead of us in quick succession.

The next of which was Bat's Head. Shorter but even goddam steeper than the prior b*stard of a hill.

Bat's head started to get a few of us emotional. It was the point at which the feeling of being a super-hero was quickly replaced by a feeling of FML. It was also the point that my Achilles Tendon, previously singing like an operatic soprano, was now heavy-metal-wailing louder than my Linkin Park track on my airpods (ironically, the track I was listening to was titled 'Numb'... I was pretty fucking far from from feeling 'Numb' at this point). The memory alone has me swearing more than an overworked, underpaid Dad who just woke up and stepped barefoot on his son's Lego bricks while coming down stairs. The combination of BFH and BFH, the blisters, the achilles and the heel led me to begin inventing new swear words by this stage. I'm now waiting to see if my very loud outbursts of "Shitmonkey", "uttercockc*nt" and "fuckinganalshitmonster-hill" catch on. Time will tell. Though I am hopeful.

Bat's Head out of the way, my Achilles decided it needed additional friends with which to complain about what i was doing. Enter 'Heel Bursitis' and 'Little Toe' who suddenly felt the need to pipe up as I made the next descent and then the climb up White Nothe.

For a (very) brief minute, I was greeted with breath-taking views that brought genuine tears to my eyes. This was possibly exacerbated by my joy of finishing the nastiest stretch of climbs on the route. But I had one of those rare moments of connections to my environment in a way that makes you believe in a Creator in our Universe.

It gave me a moment that I will hold onto for the rest of my days, and provided that single moment in time which made everything I was doing worth the pain and the fatigue.

After this point, It was the long climb and descent from White Nothe into Osmington Mills. Another fantastic running descent That did more damage to my foot than I realised, but felt fucking fantastic before I stopped.

From there my foot started to cause some serious pain. My running pace slowed as I made the run into Weymouth at 58km and the event official Midpoint. I reached the 58km stop at last light to march directly to the medic station to get my left foot looked at. With my mood darkening along with the last of the daylight, to reach almost 60km and rather than be congratulated by volunteer stewards, I was barked at to 'make sure you put your face-mask on' before I had even entered any tent... fuck... off. My mood wasn't great. My left little toe was pretty bad along with the big toe on the same foot. Both needed professional re-dressing in order to carry on. It was clear to anyone with half a mind that i was starting to suffer. Everybody was by this point. Once the foot was re-dressed, I hobbled to meet my wife and my friend and proceeded to get changed into fresh kit and reload on my gels, snacks, and electrolytes I had bagged up ready for the second almost-half. I also decided on a shoe-change into my much softer (and non-waterproof) Hoka Gaviota. The Speedgoats were epic, but being GTex, they were just too harsh on my blistered foot.

I was feeling nauseous, in pain and less than conversational. I needed to eat, hydrate, and get moving as quickly as possible and do so before the demons and doubts gained a foothold in my head. After a quick hug, a kind word, and offloading a bag of sweat soaked kit the ladies left and then had to join a 15 minute queue (most of whom had just finished their half distances, btw) to get a meal of what amounted to a plate of prison food slop. Which I couldn't stomach.

None of which helped my mood. I was glad the girls had left as that stopped me thinking about jumping in the car with them back to the hotel. No. I needed to have a few ginger tablets, a hot cup of sweet tea, and a banana. Then proceeded to make my main course for dinner a stroopwaffel from my stash.

Not my finest culinary experience.

Needless to say I wasn't feeling great. I was not alone, and looking around the open sided tent, it looked like a Hospital Tent from the Napoleonic War. Thousand yard stares, the odd whimper, K-Taped feet everywhere and shivering shell-shocked bodies. NOW we are at an Ultra! Surrounded by the crazies, like me, who thought non-stop 100km runs would be fun. Crying on the inside and having dark conversations in our heads, visualising punching the next person who was too jolly and even attempted to try and 'cheer me up'. Strangely, this is all part of the experience and the magic of ultra. Watching the same people as you, in the same dark place as you, rise against their own minds which were teasing them with thoughts of quitting. This is the stop where you find out what you've really got. When it is cold. When you really start to hurt. When you feel sick. When you know you have to pretty much do all of what you've just done again.... but in the dark.

And that gave me strength to have a serious conversation with myself. To fuck off the thoughts that 'I'm not really a long distance runner' and 'see Rich. this is far as you've really got in you, fella'

I did not come here to quit just as it started to really hurt. I promised to keep going until I can't. And I could keep moving. I still had one good foot, and it was time to put that foot forward once more.

Stage 5

Having had some strong words with myself, another cup of tea, and reloading with gels, snacks and electrolytes once more, I set off. The next section was kind. I hobbled for 5 minutes while my very cold legs warmed back up and jogged, albeit slowly, the 8km to the next rest stop at 66km.

My left foot and the freshly dressed blisters were on fire by the time i reached this point. 8km of mostly jogging in the dark was once again taking its toll. I came into that stop in a LOT of pain. Once again greeted with the maniacal 'Remember to put your mask on!' verbiage I was now accustomed to.... [Side note] If I was going to catch bloody Covid, I'd have surely picked it up in one of the portaloos earlier in the course, where you could literally taste the fermented bacterial and viral outpourings of Lucifer himself in the air, knowing it was still seeping into your eyeballs, no matter how long you could hold your breath for.

Heading, directly to the medical bay, I was greeted with a stark reminder of the risks in pushing yourself too far as a man being treated collapsed on his chair in front of the medic while clutching his chest. A gentleman not much older than me, in very serious distress with his heart. Thankfully he survived, I later discovered, however my feet were far less important in that moment. Knowing my legs felt good, my blisters were now part of my every-day-reality I was finally making peace with, and my Achilles had finally shut the fuck up, I set off into the pitch black countryside for Stage 6.

Stage 6

I struggle to find the words about this stage. It felt like a 16km through-the-night off-road shit-fest from Wyke Regis to Abbotsbury. And I was right. Just 1km out of the rest stop and I felt a pain that can only be described as a rusty screwdriver being punched into the outside of my left trail shoe. Quickly followed by a similar sensation on the inside of the same shoe. Looking down both sides of my trainer were soaked red. In that moment I knew, that this was not normal blistering and it was bad. Taking my shoe off and getting my medical kit out of my bag, I proceeded to swear like a crack-addled-escaped-mental-patient. I knew what this was. And it was not good...

I had to use a wet wipe (which I had to soak in Diluted Tesco Apple & Blackcurrant squash, as I was sick of water by this point) to clean up the blood. Next I had to process the horror-show that befell me when I'd seen that the inside of my little toe had torn open and that the end of my toe was now removing itself from where it should be), and then retape up both sides of my feet (note the swelling on the big toe after it had already exploded!). I had to make the wounds airtight with blister plasters then secure them with K-Tape and I had to do this quick as the risk of infection is way higher when shit like this happens.

This left me two choices. Go back the 1km to the medic only to do what I've just done, and probably be retired... or..... push on the 15km to the 84km stop at Abbotsbury. Yes. I pushed on. I can safely say that I have never sworn so much in my life. These few hours were the most pain-ridden, and fucking miserable of my 47 years. It was made no more delightful by the fact that the route they had in store for us had yet more fucking hills, and descents that were little more than tree-root-peppered forest slopes that were extremely muddy...

... and I didn't have waterproof shoes.

Fuck.

I had one thought in mind. There was absolutely no fucking way i was going to call in a trail rescue. I had to reach that stop. There was no if's or but's about it. I'd reach that stop and hit that double Marathon point. My Mum actually called me at around 4.30am while on an especially muddy stretch. God love her for trying to cheer me up. But I was in a very non-conversational mood at that stage. Tormented by more up and downs I then started to hit styles. Not your normal kind. No, no... But these 5 foot fucking monsters that had no final step the other side, meaning you had to jump to get down. Bad enough with two tired legs. Vomit-inducing when you have a foot in the condition mine was in. The dawn was starting and then the wind from the sea came in. It was cold. It was strong and it was wet. Just as i was balanced precariously on the final ridgeline trail of that section and I could see the rest stop. All I had to do was get down the final, and very steep, descent to it... And get past the Cows that were in my way.

Cows are not the smartest creatures. Even when the crack-addled-escaped-mental-patient arose in me, waving my sticks and raising my voice to 'Moooove' (get it? :-)). I was very tired and thought it funny at the time.

All that stood between me and the descent down a very fucking steep hill was about 8 tonnes of low-IQ walking beef. I was in no mood to be fucked with. So waving running poles like a loon, and telling a bunch of disinterested animals to fuck off, I hobbled forward and down the hill. I made the descent into hell. My 'good' foot was no longer good. I'd felt the skin go under the sole of my right foot about 5km earlier meaning that I was hobbling like I'd just come from a double hip replacement surgery by this stage. The right foot had just had too much to do on its own. I had come to terms with the fact I'd not make it along the 8km of shingle beach that awaited me beyond this stop. If it had been road and path I'd have gone for it. My legs were in great shape but my feet were done. A fact that was confirmed by the medic at Abbotsbury.

I was despondent, but knew that going further would risk some permanent damage. It was gutting not to get to the 100km mark, but 84km was achieved. Not only that, but I was in the top 15% of full distance challengers by the time I had reached Marathon Distance back at Lulworth Cove! I absolutely had the full 100km distance in my legs and without the foot issue i would have most certainly finished the full 100km in under 24hrs. A remarkable progress from zero only 5 months ago!

Two full Marathons continuously on some of the most savage hills sections I've ever been on. It was worthy of the finisher medal I received for the distance.

My pride hurts from retiring, and I need to deconstruct what went so wrong with my left foot on this day. I'd never had this problem while running 52km trail in the same boots and socks and taping solution, so I need to understand why it happened today.

Despite the blood, the pain, the tears, the tiredness and all the effort could i face going through all that again?

Fuck yes!

I've gone in 23 hours and 3 minutes further than most humans will ever dare to attempt. Not bad for an overweight nearly-50 man who couldn't run for a bus because of the injury issues less than six months ago. I'll heal. I'll get over it. I'll learn from it. I will recover. I will come back stronger.... And I will run 100km....

To anyone who reads this, thank you. So many of you have supported me throughout, and are part of this adventure I'm on. It made a big difference on the day knowing so many wanted me to go so far. It's humbling to read the posts people put up and messages I received. I raised over £2000 for Cancer Research (and earned every fucking penny of it, I might add). A sum that will make a difference and save a life. And that makes it so worth the pain.

This is a journey that continues, and I will keep blogging for anyone following my long road to running ultra. But right now I think I'll take a week or two's break.

Much love and thanks for reading. See you in the next one.