Fifty Miles of Sun: The South Downs Way 50 Ultramarathon
In his bestselling book, Thinking, Fast and Slow, Nobel laureate Daniel Kahneman describes how our memories of lengthy events can be affected, perhaps irrationally, by single moments: our enjoyment of a beautiful symphony can be spoiled by a single wrong note in the final bar. My 50 mile run along the South Downs Way on April 8th offered an experience similar in process but opposite in effect. The highs of perfect weather and scenery and an endorphin-fuelled finish have blotted out any recollections of pain and frustration to leave a memory of a perfect running day.
Part of the challenge of ultrarunning is the logistics of getting to the start with the requisite kit, and getting back from the finish, which can be in another county altogether. On this occasion, I stayed on Friday night with friends near Lewes, mid-way along the SDW50 route, so that I had just a 30 minute journey to the start in Worthing on Saturday morning. It was bright with fog patches on the short drive; it seemed likely that the fog would burn off fairly quickly to reveal the bright day forecast. I had already had my kit checked and picked up my number the evening before, so on race morning there was nothing to do except pay multiple visits to the toilet and take the obligatory selfies before listening to the race briefing and setting off on my fifty mile trip.
Together with fellow Metros runner Spencer Millbery, I was using the SDW50 as a final long run before my year’s real target, the Thames Path 100. My aim was to finish within the 13 hour cut-off time and still feel comfortable, as a confidence boost for TP100 three weeks later. With more than 500 miles of solid training behind me so far in 2017, and three ultras completed since summer 2015, I was confident of completing 50 miles. The trick was to do it well within the cut-off time, and still feel like I could continue running. That would help me feel confident about 100 miles along the Thames later in the month.
My last visit to the South Downs – for last year’s 53 mile Race to the King – had partly been a nightmare of dehydration. Poor preparation, a back injury treated with painkillers, and a too quick early pace had combined to make up a 13h30m run. Not a disaster, but nowhere near what I wanted to achieve this year. I was determined not to make similar mistakes; I was well-rested, well-hydrated, and determined not to let ego or successful tapering cause me to set off too quickly.
The weather was perfect, for walkers; a tad too warm for runners (of whom 30 out of 400 DNFed). Thankfully, there was something of a cooling breeze once I got up onto the (mis-named?) downs. The first few miles involved some steady climbing, just getting legs moving, and letting the patellofemoral soreness I’ve been getting at the start of runs ease off. If I’d been less well prepared, that knee pain might have prayed on my mind. As it was, I had enough runs behind me to know that it would simply disappear after two or three miles on the move.
I had a vague idea of running 12 minute miles, and the first 10 miles were on schedule. The first aid station was at 11 miles, and I refilled my water bladder, drank some Coke, and ate a few crisps and mini sausage rolls. The next 10 miles were the hardest of the day. Miles of relentless climb in rising temperatures. But months of training, coupled with stunning views and a refusal to bow to time pressure, made it much less difficult than it could have been. It was easy to say to oneself, “This is beautiful, and I feel great.”
At around 16 miles I caught up with Spencer, and we ran together for a while before he stopped for a comfort break. I was in and out of the next aid station – a couple of peanut butter wraps to the good – without seeing him, and without re-filling my water bladder, which was nearly a mistake. By the time I reached the 26 mile aid station at Housedean I’d been out of water for a couple of miles. Not ideal, but not disastrous. The run into Housedean felt epic, down a steep hill into a wide open valley, with a Dead Can Dance track playing in my ears. I always associated this part of the country with a friend who attended Sussex University, who introduced me to Dead Can Dance, and who sadly died way too young a couple of years ago. On another day, I might have been tempted to go back up the hill and repeat the experience.
Running friend Sarah Tizzard was volunteering at the aid station (this was my first 50 mile+ ultra when she hadn’t also been running, so it was good to get a hug as I jogged in. We chatted for a bit while she refilled my water and I downed more cups of Coke. She gave me the Taste the Difference deep-filled sausage roll she had been saving for me, and I left in good spirits, knowing I was already past half way and well up on my planned schedule. And no, Sarah, I didn’t chuck is over a hedge; I ate the whole thing!
Considering I’d already gone beyond marathon distance, running should have been really hard by this point. But I felt strong and comfortable. I took photos every ten miles, or when a particularly stunning view hove into view. I occasionally chatted with other runners, fast walking up any steep inclines and running the rest of the time. I stopped to help a runner with cramp – Centurion Running is clear that between checkpoints runners should be self-sufficient, so that they can take care of themselves and any other runner in distress. And regardless of that, one of the joys of ultra-running is that the pressure of competition is always subordinate to the camaraderie and willingness to help other runners. The runner in question was helped by a nearby runner who happened to be a trained physio, two others and myself, with salt, electrolytes, a hoist onto his feet, and much encouragement. I assume he finished. He certainly made it to the 41 mile aid station; he was coming in as I left, and thanked me for the S-Cap salt tablets I had given him.
It was at that same aid station, a chapel furnished in deeply polished mahogany in the picturesque village of Alfriston, that I saw Spencer again. I had sat down for the only time since 9am, when he came in, grabbed a couple of things from the smorgasbord of calories, hydration and salt, and headed out again. By the time I got outside he was out of sight. Alfriston, like all the other aid stations, is in a valley, which meant another hill climb when one left. This one went up an imposing ridge which swept round to the right, climbing for more than a mile. I looked up at the crest, thinking it would make a great photo. As I contemplated getting my phone out to take a shot, I saw a pair of pink socks approaching the distant summit. Spencer, already many minutes ahead.
At 35 miles or so, I’d been running with a lady who was accumulating UTMB points. She was a serious mountain runner who had grown up in Northumbria. For her, the South Downs were just bumps, not steep enough to merit notice. Like me, she was not running for a time, but for training. During a pause in our conversation we had both calculated that if we walked the remaining miles we’d still make the cut-off time. We neither of us intended to do that, but the realisation gave me confidence. Notwithstanding some unexpected disaster, the prospect of DNFing was no longer something to consider. We could relax into our running, knowing that any mile covered in under 20 minutes was minutes in the bank.
As things turned out, most of my remaining miles after Alfriston were run much faster than that. I’d taken a couple of Anadin Ultra (appropriately enough), and they kicked in after about 30 minutes, so that by the time I reached the top of the next climb I felt strong and fast. As I passed a fellow runner he asked me the time, as his watch had stopped. I told him we should be able to make the final aid station before dark. This turned out to be true, but rather pessimistic. At one point on the run, I’d accidentally stopped my Garmin for a while (I still don’t know what button to press to view an incoming message during a course run), and so I didn’t know my exact distance covered. As things turned out, I was further along than I had thought.
The final aid station was only four miles from the finish. Many runners didn’t even stop. But I popped in and picked up a bag of orange segments to carry with me. It was still light, so my headtorch stayed stashed in my bag. There was one more trig point to reach, then a downhill stretch into Eastbourne. It was familiar from the video on the race website, provided to help with navigation. Its downhill section was the perfect gradient for me. Even in the gathering dusk, while others walk or jogged, I ran down, clocking up 6 minute kilometres, and feeling full of running and life. I picked up around 30 places in the second half of the race, maybe half of them in the final three miles.
On the final run into Eastbourne, as darkness approached, I spotted Spencer’s trademark pink socks up ahead. I caught him up with a mile and a bit to go. We chatted, and agreed to finish together. No need for any competitive heroics, given that we both had a longer race to run three weeks later.
The finish was a lap round a running track. Even though I was full of running, part of me felt this was a little cruel. In the event, it was a perfect way to finish. The junior Millberys joined us for our lap, and we finished side-by-side in 11 hours and 16 minutes, comfortably inside the cut-off time, and without having to take our head-torches out of our packs.
Centurion Running is a real runner’s outfit. The medal and t-shirt are awesome. The organisation is exemplary, and the volunteers are incredible. As we took photos of ourselves, a volunteer handed me my kit bag, transported from the start. I had my customary post-race hotdog – free to runners – and then lay on a mat chatting to fellow Harrow ultrarunner Julian Desai, waiting for the coach back to Worthing, feeling thoroughly pleased with myself and pleased with the world in general, confident that the Thames Path 100 at the end of April is within my compass. Watch this space to see how that works out.
Many people, including accomplished runners, appear to believe that ultrarunning is somehow freakishly difficult. In truth, as with other types of running, the greatest difficulty is training. Sprinting is difficult if you avoid speed sessions. A parkrun is difficult if you never got off the sofa. Ultrarunning is easy if you run hundreds of miles in training. Of course, that requires motivation, enough knowledge and good fortune to avoid injury, and enough time. And unlike sprinting, ultrarunning gives you the opportunity to run through landscapes of unsurpassed beauty. There were moments on the South Downs Way 50, miles of Sussex countryside stretching out on all sides, under a cloudless cobalt sky, when I wondered why I would ever want to run a city marathon, and knew exactly why I run ultras.
How should one run after completing a 50 mile run with 6000ft of elevation. Certainly not the next day, but how about the following day. I ventured out to my regular Metros Monday night run, and was greeting with a lump-in-the-throat-inducing round of applause by clubmates. Frankly, those
few moments of applause from fellow runners I am happy and proud to call my friends made the months of training worthwhile.
