Chiltern of the Corn
Chiltern Wonderland 50 - A Feast for the Eyes, a Beast for the Thighs
“What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.”
T S Eliot, Little Gidding,
The corn field is a well-worn Hollywood motif. Think Cary Grant in North by Northwest, Kevin Costner in Field of Dreams, Interstellar, Planet of the Apes (the original, Charlton Heston version, natch), Twister, and of course Children of the Corn, the classic horror that once seen can never be unseen. All of these came to mind as I jogged through a field of head-high maize some dozen or so miles into the Chiltern Wonderland 50 ultramarathon last weekend. It was a warm September Saturday, the sun climbing in the sky. I’d just crossed a harvested corn field, brown and dusty, like a Hardyesque symbol for spiritual decline, with just the odd husky cob lying forlorn in the dirt here and there, missed by the mechanical harvester. Now I found myself ploughing a metaphorical furrow through a maze of maize, transported back to poorly remembered childhood experiences of ‘pick-your-own’ sweetcorn in 70s West Yorkshire. It was one of many sensory overloads during the 50 miles and 11 hours 49 minutes I spent footing from Goring on Thames to Goring on Thames.
The day had started inauspiciously several hours before. For the third time this year, I was travelling to a 50 mile race with local running friend and fellow Centurion Julian Desai. It was my turn to drive, but when I turned the key of my usually trusty Alfa, the battery was inexplicably dead. Thankfully, Julian was able to take over driving duties, and within ten minutes we were on our way from Harrow to Goring, for kit-check and registration. Having run five Centurion races and volunteered at many others, I very much feel part of the Centurion family, and there were many familiar faces at Goring Village Hall. Zoe Norman checked my kit – her first of many appearances during the day, and Sarah Tizzard (without whom none of my ultras is complete) handed me my running number.
I enjoyed James Elson’s pre-race briefing, for once again being able to raise my hand as a ‘slammer’. Also, the injunction not to shout at cows – though I don’t think I actually saw any on the course. Shortly before 9am, 200-odd runners were stood by the Thames ready for the off.
I came into the race following what, for me, was a decent block of training. Two weeks before I’d clocked my quickest HM time in nearly five years, though I had over-stretched a hamstring in the process. But my left achilles was persistently sore, and I’d had a couple of days of an upset stomach, so I really didn’t now what to expect of myself.
I set off at what I thought would be 10-hour pace, which would be a 50-mile pb for me. All went well in the early miles. I was on target at Tokers Green checkpoint around 10 miles, and arrived at Bix, 17 miles in, in a little under 3 hours 20. 10 hour pace, I thought. The route was so scenic it had crossed my mind that I wouldn’t be unhappy to run further than 50 miles. Hubris, right there.
Running into Bix brought on a mix of emotions. A year earlier I’d volunteered at this aid station, and nearing the cut-off time we were waiting for one last runner to come through. I’d jogged back down the course to look for them, to give encouragement if they needed it.So much so normal Centurion army.Except that last year that had been pretty much the first time I’d broken into a jog following knee surgery that had ended nine months of injury. It was arresting and uplifting to know that twelve months later I was running along that same stretch of road, without a thought for my knee, but instead only focussed on a much needed toilet-break!
It was great to see Sarah Tizzard for the second time that day, also volunteering at Bix. Also Anna Chmielowska, who I’d volunteered with at the South Downs Way 100 finish line early in the year, and was here pouring much-needed water for thirsty runners. It was a hot day by now, and I was not alone in drinking all the fluid I was carrying between aid stations.
I left Bix with a spring in my step, thoughts of a 50 mile PB in my mind. But having not reccied the course beforehand (yes, I’d seen the elevation stats, but how ‘hard’ could a race with ‘Wonderland’ in the name really be?), I didn’t know what lay ahead of me. Within a few miles – miles of relentless ascents and descents in the afternoon heat – any thoughts of a 10 hour finish was forgotten, replaced by strategising about beating cut-offs from there to the end.
The Chiltern Wonderland 50 is the third of four 50 mile races by Centurion Running. Anyone who completes all four in year earns a ‘Grand Slam’ medal, and timeless kudos. I’d already completed the South Downs Way 50 and North Downs Way 50 this year, so this was part three of my ‘slam’. Of such things are motivation made.
I often count in my head when running. Using eclectic patterns of numbers to tick off the distances. On this occasion, I was counting the percentage of the race I had completed. 40, 41, 42, 42, etc. with each half mile. I was also counting the percentage of the ‘grand slam’ I’d completed. With each mile, 60, 60.5, 61, 61.5, etc. To ‘amuse’ myself (ie. to keep my mind off my sore feet and aching legs), I decided to work out the point in the race at which my percentage completed for the race and my percentage completed for the ‘slam’ would be the same. In my head, I came up with the algebraic equations and solved for X. I’m sad; I don’t mind admitting it. 33.33 miles, in case you care!
The scenery was stunning. The kind of English countryside that always brings to mind the village name titles from Eliot's Four Quartets. East Coker. Burnt Norton. Little Gidding. There were rolling hills. A private deer park. (How rich do you have to be to have your own deer park?) Windmills on hills. A horse nodding over a five bar gate, a though offering approval of my endeavour. Red Kites soaring overhead. (They actually look like toy kites!) Ruined medieval churches hiding behind hedgerows (I love a bit of ecclesiastical architecture – see my Pinterest board!). Miss Marple driving past in an omnibus. (OK, I made that one up.) There were moments of bliss, when there was nothing but blue sky, greenery, movement and silence. But the heat and the hills were punishing. My pace slowed to a crawl, and when I finally arrived at Ibstone, I was ridiculously grateful that the aid station was in a school where there were picnic benches to sit down at. I would have wrestled all-comers for a seat at that point. I was 25 miles in, but far from being sure I would be able to finish.
I was grateful for words from Louise Ayling, who told me the leg I’d just done was the hardest on the course, and from here on in they got gradually easier. She has an honest face, and I chose to believe her.
Sure enough, the next leg to Swyncombe, was somewhat less daunting. I recognised parts of the Ridgeway I’d run a couple of times during Race to the Stones. As I jogged into Swyncombe, I was greeted by Metros running buddy Spencer Millbery, as understated as ever. He was sweeping the next section of the course. (One of the great things about Centurion events is that hours after the race has passed, not a trace is left behind.) Zoe Norman was also there, though maybe I just imagined that she was at every aid station. I watched a volunteer slicing a pineapple, and had to restrain myself from grabbing pieces before he’d finished, only deterred by the thought of losing a fingertip. There are few things better than fresh pineapple when you’re deep into an ultra on a hot day.
I don’t remember too much about the section from Swyncombe to Grim’s Ditch. Except there was more recognition of the Ridgeway. I think there was a point where I ran past a busy country pub, which I thought, and said to the road-side punters, was cruel.
At Grim’s Ditch, the final aid station, I poured water over my head to wash off the salt of the day. Runners who were wearing black, I was told, had arrived stained white, so hot had the day been. Around two miles before the aid station, a well-meaning supporter had informed me the next aid station was half a km past the next field. Thankfully, I trust my Garmin more than I trust random trail-side supporters, else that single piece of fake news could have de-railed my entire race. See also, ‘It’s all downhill from here,’ and ‘You’re almost there.’
As I left the final checkpoint, Nicky Mills said she’d see me at the finish. When I replied I hoped so, she gave me an eloquent look. OK, I thought. Let’s get this done. When, a while later, I fell into step with fellow-slammer Dean Longman, I said I’d be finishing unless I broke a leg. He concurred.
The sun set, the temperature cooled, and the miles to go clicked down. “I can walk the rest and beat the cut-off,” became “I can get inside 12 hours.” As darkness fell, I donned my headtorch. I was thankful I had a bright one. As the temperature dropped, I felt able to run at a respectable pace, and needed to see where I was going and the underfoot conditions. I passed several runners with fewer lumens – though perhaps they were going more slowly due to fatigue.
As I reached the ‘parkrun to go’ stage, I was confident I would finish in under 12 hours. Not what I had hoped for at the start of the day, but more than enough for a medal and a sense of achievement. I ran back into Goring, past where we had parked that morning, past another pub of rowdy Saturday night drinkers, who applauded me on my way, and back to the village hall. Where Stuart March was there to take my finisher photo. Where Julian was already recovering, having finished 25 minutes ahead of me. Where Melanie McKay handed me my finisher bag and gave me a hug. Where Race Director James Elson shook my hand. Where I began to imagine this was the hardest part of the ‘slam’, and Wendover Woods 50 in November would be ‘relatively easy’! Where Anna Chmielowska, having also swept a section of the course, was there with a hug and a cup of tea with (maybe) two sugars. Where I couldn’t face my customary hot dog, but Anna brought me a single, unadorned sausage, because that’s what I asked for. I was part of the Centurion family. I had arrived at my beginning. From Goring on Thames to Goring on Thames. Three out of four parts of the 'slam' in the bag.
What is run, can never be un-run.
