A Long Distance Social Event
It’s a Monday evening in August, the air is still warm as the sun sets, and I’m walking laps around my local park. Slow, slightly painful laps. My feet and legs are sore and stiff. Though outwardly I occasionally grimace, inside I’m grinning like the Cheshire Cat who got the cream. It’s the day after the North Downs Way 100 mile race, I’m wearing my finisher’s t-shirt, and in my pocket I’m holding my finisher’s buckle, one of only 107 handed out during a blisteringly hot weekend in Surrey and Kent.
Rewind several weeks, and I had been convinced that this race, and any others, would not go ahead in 2020. Covid-19 had put paid to countless events, and national social distancing requirements seemed to rule out large events for the foreseeable future. What I hadn’t banked on was the determination and resourcefulness of Centurion Running and the Centurion community. Clear thinking, detailed planning and rigorous implementation meant it was perfectly possible to stage a Covid-secure trail running event. Adaptations, to make it work, included a virtual video race briefing, no pre-race kit checks, a two hour start window, temperature checks for runners at the start line, staff and volunteers in PPE, socially distanced aid stations and a collect your own medal table at the finish, if you made it that far!
So on Saturday 8th August, at around 6.10am, my father dropped me off at Farnham Leisure Centre, with my race pack, finisher bag and two drop bags, which I’d been organising and packing over the course of the previous week.
There was no kit-check, no poker chip, and my race number was already pinned to my shorts., But despite the social distancing, I already felt like I was back in the bosom of my running family. Being part of just one Centurion event can be a bonding experience, and last year I ran five and volunteered at four. So this did feel like coming home. I exchanged words with Stuart March and Nici, and Stuart McLaughlin, supervising drop bags, passed on a message from my pacer, Helen Caddy-Leach – “Don’t fuck about.” Or words to that effect. Similar in tone to the encouraging WhatsApp message from fellow-Black Trail Runners founder, Sabrina Pace-Humphreys – “Don’t be shit.”
With these words of wisdom ringing in my ears, I wandered down to the start line, was greeted by James Elson and had my temperature checked by a PPE-clad volunteer, and picked up my GPS tracker hired from Chris Mills. Having passed the temperature check, there was nothing left to do but step over the timing mat and get on my way to Ashford. I hit go on my Garmin at 6.30am.
Following my successful 50 Slam year in 2019, this was to be a 100 Slam year. As originally scheduled, Centurion’s four 100-mile races were ideally sequenced, with TP100 (that I’d completed before) followed by SDW100 (my favourite route, and with two SDW50 finishes) followed by, in my mind, the tougher NDW100 and A100. Of course, the pandemic has put paid to that. Now, not only were the races concertinaed into less than four months, but arguably the hardest race was now first. Added to that, it followed months of lockdown, in which training had gradually become more desultory, and psychologically the year’s racing had been written off. So, when it became clear the race and Slam would actually be going ahead, I’d improvised a six-week training plan to get my body and head somewhere close to where they needed to be.
I also added in two things I had not done for an ultra before; anything to improve my chances of completion. I bought poles, to help me cope with the up-hills and, late on, the downhills too. And I got myself a pacer. I had met Helen Caddy-Leach once before, at the A100 in 2017, when she helped Andy Law get a buckle by inviting herself to pace him out of Goring when he had all but decided to quit. This summer she is training for the Robin Hood 100 in September, and fancied a fifty mile training run on the North Downs, so asked mutual friend Spencer Millbery if he knew anyone looking for a pacer. I answer the call, and the rest is history. After a couple of get-to-know-each-other runs round Wendover Woods, I knew I was going to be in the best possible hands on the way to Ashford, as long as I could make it to Knockholt in good time.
Then the weather threw a final curve ball. Two weeks out from race day, the forecast was looking hot, hot, hot. As race day neared, it only got worse, with temperatures in the mid-30s likely. This, coupled with the removal of the usual first aid station at Puttenham, meant even getting to Newlands Corner at 14.5 miles without dehydrating was going to be a challenge. I decided to carry an extra 750ml collapsible water bottle.
The heat just made it more necessary to start with fallback plans in place. Plan A was to aim for sub-24hours. Plan B was to aim for sub-26, beating the time for my only previous 100 mile race. Plan C was to finish inside the 30 hour cut-off and slink home with my buckle.
Readers of this blog/report will likely fall into three categories: those who have run the NDW, those who have not but are considering it in the future, and those with more sense. If you’re in the first category, you can skip the next paragraph. If you’re in the second category, you may simply want to look away.
The NDW is a beautiful brute of a course. There are woodlands and downlands. There are vineyards, farmyards and graveyards. There are waterways and motorways. And there are steps. Lots of steps. On paper, it has a similar elevation profile to the South Downs Way. On the ground, it feels like a totally different beast. Oh, and it’s longer than 100 miles. Four whole miles longer, meaning cut-off chasers have to be wary.
At 6.30 in the morning, it was still (relatively) cool. Jogging along at 13-minute miles (sub-24 hour pace) was easy enough. The first 24 miles of the course is relatively flat, with the main challenge being the risk of going off too fast. I resisted all temptation to up my pace, even though I felt comfortable. I was passed by a lot of later starters. Theoretically, those starting later than me should have been running slower than me. I had a feeling I was going to be seeing quite a few of them again later on in the race, but I kept my thoughts to myself.
One of those who overtook me zipped past the bridge over the river just past Guildford Law College. As I crossed the bridge, I waved at him to come back, which he did. But I then compounded his error by turning right instead of left off the bridge, running down a nettle-strewn path that, it became apparent, hadn’t had a couple of hundred runners on it that morning, and therefore wasn’t the correct route. It was the first of four minor course mistakes I made during the day, not due to any lack of course marking, but to my own inattention (except the one that was down to Helen – the necessary proof that she is not quite the perfect pacer!). I at least avoided the significant detour I took in last year’s NDW50. But the extra distance made late race pace calculations more difficult.
I chatted with some of those who passed me in the early stages. I was actually surprised by how much time I was running in the company of others. I’d imagined the starting window would spread out the field so much that I’d largely be running on my own, but there was in fact a lot of companionable running, with strangers and Centurion acquaintances alike. I spent some time running with Amanda Davis, and was impressed that she had the energy not only to sing, but also to dance, as she ran – a lack of inhibition I could never hope to emulate.
Although the Puttenham aid station had been removed, a water tap on a pavilion nearby was helpfully signposted, and I stopped to replace the litre of Tailwind I’d already consumed with water. Determination to stay hydrated was probably the single most important factor in my ultimate race success. The one time I neglected it resulted in my low point of the day.
Just before Newlands Corner aid station, I was snapped by Stuart March, and was able to raise a smile, as I was feeling pretty comfortable and confident. It was my first experience of a Covid-secure aid station. Hand sanitiser on the way in. Fill my own bottles – including the extra one – at a socially distanced table. Pick up individual food items – a pack of crisps and a malt loaf bar. I did not linger, happy to eat my food as I walked. One runner was in a chair, and I wondered how he would cover the remaining 80 miles if already struggling.
The next 10 miles or so, to the repositioned Box Hill aid station, were uneventful enough, though I was grateful for the ice-pop handed out by the 50-Slam t-shirt wearing supporter somewhere near Denbies. I was familiar with the route, picturesque and varied. I refilled my vest bottles, but not my extra one, as it was only 7 miles to the next aid station. This was a mistake.
Apparently the National Trust had asked for the route at Box Hill to be adjusted, avoiding the stepping stones (boo!) but also avoiding the summit of the hill (hooray!). I will buy an extra jar of organic marmalade next time I visit a National Trust property, by way of thanks.
I unfolded my new Black Diamond carbon poles for the first time as I prepared to ascend the Box Hill steps. The carbon Z-poles are a lovely piece of kit. Perfectly functional, and so light that I had run 24 miles with them attached to my race vest without ever really noticing them. Once I unfolded them, I kept them in hand for the rest of the race. Running with them held in a hand was entirely comfortable (and apparently it’s against the Pacer’s Code for a pacer to carry them). I’d brought gloves too, but it was far too warm to contemplate wearing them, so I ended up carrying them on the back of my pack for 104 miles. The poles made the Box Hill steps easier than I had experienced before. I’m not going to say I enjoyed the steps, but I did not feel at all distressed going up them. The new ‘summit’ with a marshal – Karen Bennett, an Instagram friend – pointing me off to the right before reaching the real summit, came before I unleashed any swear words. I’ll take that as a win.
During my 2019 NDW50 run, the seven mile section from Box Hill to Reigate had been the low point of my race. It was much the same this time round. The day had warmed up considerably, the ups and downs were relentless, and my heart rate stayed persistently high even when walking. Trying to cool down, I drank all my fluids. Not filling my extra bottle at Box Hill left me with nothing to drink for more than a mile. Reigate aid station couldn’t come soon enough. The passer-by telling me it was 500m ahead was a bloody liar. I should know by now never to trust the distance judgements of non-runners. When the checkpoint finally hove into view, it was lovely to see fellow-Black Trail Runners co-founder Donna Richards on duty. It was even lovelier to down a few cups of water, and then sit down with a banana and some satsumas. At Box Hill I had taken my second bag of crisps of the day, but by the time I’d eaten them, they were tasting like chalk and ash in my mouth. From then on, soft fruits were pretty much all I could swallow.
As last year, a few minutes rest at Reigate, together with food and water, restored my spirits and my energy. Cat Simpson’s dad Keith was experiencing something similar, and he headed out not far behind me, though he stopped at Caterham. For me, the seven miles to Caterham were probably my best running of the day. I was feeling strong and happy. And it was great to be welcomed into the aid station by the indefatigable Sharon Dickson.
My good spirits survived all the way to Botley Hill at 43 miles, even if my good running pace didn’t. I was overtaken by a dust-churning tractor on the long drag up through the Titsey estate, but the grime was just another layer on top of my trusty P20 sun lotion and countless layers of salt and trail dirt.
At Botley I was chosen for a random mandatory kit check. The marshal was apologetic, but I didn’t mind. It was an excuse to stop moving that my pacer could not complain about. I was asked for my two torches and my emergency blanket. The former were in my dropbag and Knockholt, which was within the rules. The latter was of course at the bottom of my running vest. Once I was all packed up again, I filled up with water, grabbed some fruit and a cup of coke, and headed out, with halfway in sight.
I called ahead to Helen to let her know I’d left Botley. I tried to say how long I’d be getting to Knockholt, but my ability to calculate anything had deteriorated substantially. She reassured me that she would take over the thinking for the second half of the race.
By now it was late afternoon. It was still very hot, and this section of the course has lots of exposed parts, running across and alongside south-facing fields. The race was taking its toll on the runners, and I was starting to gain places, as other runners slowed or dropped out. I moved up 19 places between Box Hill and Botley Hill, and another 12 by the time I reached Knockholt.
A few miles before Knockholt I caught up with Centurion legend Rob Cowlin, who said he was going to drop at halfway. When he listed the names of people who he knew had already DNF’d, I began to realise how hard the weather had affected people. But I was feeling fairly fresh at this point, so after a few minutes of chat, I jogged on ahead.
In a field not far outside Knockholt I saw a small herd of cows loitering on the path. Off to the right was a runner, skirting the far edge of the field, giving the cattle as wide a berth as possible. A few years ago I ran the Conquest of Avalon race in Somerset, and had run some miles with a farmer’s son. When we had encountered cows in our path he had simply shouted at them to move. I did the same now, and the beasts ambled out of my way. I reached the other side of the field about the same time as the more circumspect runner, Emma Hancock. She had started earlier than me, and was worried about getting timed out. She ran strong into Knockholt, but I saw later than she DNFd, at Holly Hill I think.
Knowing I was meeting Helen at Knockholt, and that my legs were still in decent working order, I was feeling confident as I walked into the village hall, using the buff I’d carried round my wrist as a face covering. I almost feel guilty not spending more time at aid stations, particularly when friends and aquaintances are there – this time Lesley Lewis. I’d told Helen I planned to change my shirt, shorts and socks, with dry gear from my drop bag. She seemed unimpressed that it might take me more than 10 minutes to do that. I think I did it in 12. I filled my bottles, drank a bottle of Lucozade Sport, put my headtorches and portable charger in my pack, and headed out. There was Martin Johnson, another Black Trail Runners co-founder, waiting for the runner he was pacing to eat a plate of pasta. There was time for a selfie, and I was on the road again.
Helen was waiting for me as arranged, by the village green. She was stood with hands on hips, giving me her ‘this race won’t finish itself’ look. I broke into a jog, pretty much setting the pattern for the next 52 miles.
Having run four Wendover loops together in the previous four weeks, Helen and I knew each other’s running temperaments pretty well. She knew I had the strength and determination to keep going. I knew she would push me as hard as necessary to stop me sabotaging my own race. She’d outlined her job as making sure I was always moving forwards with purpose and didn’t faff at aid stations. Once I’d stopped to put my watch on charge, we quickly settled into a rhythm, whereby I took the lead when we were running, and she took the lead when we were walking – to make sure I didn’t dawdle.
Not too far from Knockholt someone shouted my name from up ahead, and I saw that it was my former London Business School classmate Andrew Cosgrove, and his wife Amanda. The route passed close to their house, and they’d been dot-watching my progress, and came out to give me a cheer. A really nice surprise that put a smile on my face for a good few miles. Over the course of the race, it was encouraging to know that so many people were following my progress on social media and sending messages of support. There was also more general support out on the course. Crews were generous to all runners. A special shout-out to Dimi Booth and her partner, popping up at countless points, distributing Calippos to all an sundry. I can still taste citric generosity of those icy treats – ultra-running nectar.
By the time we reached Wrotham, the second indoor aid station, it was dark, and our headtorches were on. Helen gave me two minutes to fill my bottles and pick up more banana and satsuma. I might have done it, if I hadn’t spilled half a litre of Tailwind on the floor. On the way out we bumped into Race Director James Elson. He complimented me on how my race was going. By which he meant the fact I was still in it. I’d gained 37 places in 10 miles, mostly, I presume, because of runners dropping out at Knockholt.
On the way out of Wrotham, we passed Amanda Davis – she of the dancing – and her pacer coming in. We’d spend a fair few of the next twenty miles swapping places with them as we both moved up the field.
Running in the dark was fairly uneventful. Helen took care of navigation and motivation. I concentrated on not falling over, and trying to stay hydrated. I’d pretty much given up on solid food. I’d had a bite of flapjack, and it had taken about five nauseating minutes to chew and swallow it. A handful of cashew nuts later on was much the same. Thank goodness for Tailwind, coke, bananas and satsumas. Babybels and cheddar sticks also proved edible. I felt sorry for making Helen bring a sausage roll all the way from Northamptonshire. I had not run any of the second half of the route before, but I was familiar with the aid stations from having driven the sweep bus last year. I remembered Holly Hill as the place where I had to carry out a 32-point turn in a 17 seater bus. This year, the vehicle parked nearby was an ambulance, and they were doing good business. This was another popular dropping point for overheated runners. In the five miles from Wrotham, I’d effectively moved up another 18 places. Running was not much more painful than walking, so we continued with walking the ups – now using my poles – and running the flats and easy downs.
The section to Bluebell Hill and then Detling is mostly a blur. I think I just followed the beam of our headtorches, trudging up hills behind Helen and then when she stopped at a brow of an incline and gave me the ‘look’, breaking into a jog as I went past her. The monotony was broken by the Medway bridge. We ran the whole way across it, spurred on by the roar of the boy racers on the motorway waving their metaphorical dicks at each other.
It was getting light as we approached Detling, the second drop bag location and an aid station that paradoxically feels like it’s near the end of the race but also feels a long way from the end – as there are still more than 20 miles to go, including some of the most challenging of the course. I asked Helen whether the infamous Detling steps went up or down. She claimed not to remember from her running of the race two years previously, when she was fifth lady. I later discovered this was just a ruse on her part, to avoid discouraging me with the news that the steps went up, down, up, down, up, down, seemingly endlessly.
I had planned to change my kit again at Detling. Helen insisted on a five minute turnaround. I limited myself to changing my socks, while Helen stayed outside, looking at her watch. I asked a volunteer to tell her I was having a lie down, to see if that would provoke her into coming inside. It merely provoked a response that I could hear from inside. I was sat next to runner who had passed me in the early stages of the race. When I asked him how he was getting on, he said he had been timed out. I couldn’t understand what he meant, as he was there before me. He had to explain that he had come in the sweep bus from Holly Hill. I learned that well over a hundred people had DNF’d so far. I was sorry for all the people I knew whose race had not turned out how they wished. But I was also rather proud of myself that I was still moving forward and was, if not at the end, then at the beginning of the end.
The four miles after Detling – four miles of shit, as Helen described them as we headed up the first incline out of the village – would be hard work on a cool day, without 82 miles in my legs. On this occasion, they just felt cruel. One could see roads and paths hugging the valley floors, but the NDW always take the ‘high road’, with endless steps, flinty paths and low hanging branches to stoop under. After about two miles of this morale-sapping slow progress, I was plucking up the courage to suggest we could slow down a bit; I was sure we had sufficient time in the bank, and I was just plain knackered. Helen spoke before I opened my mouth, saying, “Sonny, we need to speed up.” I don’t think it was by accident that she was out of reach of my poles when she said it. Yes, this was a slow section, but she made it clear I couldn’t afford 18 and 20 minute miles. Of course, she was right. And of course, the fatigue I was feeling was only partly my body. Once we got past the ‘four miles of shit’ we did some 14 and 15 minute miles, effectively putting time in the bank for the last haul. None of that ‘crappy limp drag walk.’
By Lenham, we were an hour ahead of the cut-off, and I was in 94th position, just one behind my highest Centurion placing, at last year’s WW50k, which was a smaller field. I was starting to picture myself with a finisher’s buckle. With each mile, our allowable margin of error increased. The time we had in hand stayed the same or increased, while the distance to the finish inexorably decreased.
When we arrived at Dunn Street, the final aid station, the finish – which by then was feeling like victory – seemed almost certain. Mark Fox and Tara Bashford were among the volunteers there. Apart from water and a piece of banana, all I wanted was a precise distance to the finish line. Four and a half miles was the answer.
Soon after we left the aid station, I told Helen I had sub-29 as my new target. The previous day that wouldn’t have felt like much to aim at. From here, it felt like an appropriate ambition. It meant running in for the most part, and on paper it would hopefully look like I wasn’t chasing cut-offs.
As we entered Ashford, only a broken leg was going to stop me getting a buckle. The last few miles of the race are the antithesis of the previous 100. Suburban roads lead eventually to the Julie Rose Stadium. I didn’t know what to expect there, given the Covid-19 adjustments. Would anyone be there? How would it feel to enter the stadium?
The answer was that it felt awesome. Not only the prospect of stopping moving for the first time since Saturday morning, but the now very real, the undeniable prospect of having a NDW100 buckle, and one that few others would have. I was sorely tempted to walk round the track, but Helen would not hear of it, so we jogged round those last few hundred metres. There were quite a few people sitting around the perimeter of the track – earlier finishers, crew and pacers, and my wife and father who had driven down to collect me – as well as the Centurion staff and volunteers on the in-field. I could hear applause, and I felt like I’d earned it. I raised my arms, poles in one hand, as I crossed the finish line under the familiar blue Centurion arch. One yard further on, I fell to the floor in relief and exhaustion.
My final position was 90th of 107 finishers. More than half the starters DNF’d. I like to think that in years to come, people who completed the 2020 NDW100 will be remembered as a select group of particularly hardy runners, who battled heat, humidity and hills in their quest for a small piece of metal and, more importantly, a sense of achievement.
I picked up my buckle, and my t-shirt. I accepted the congratulations of all those who offered it – James, Nici, Stuart, Chris. Helen kindly collected my finish bag for me, and we quaffed some of the prosecco I had stashed in it. She’ll likely hate me saying it, but I’m certain I would not have made it to Ashford without her support, and the buckle I now have is partly hers. Thanks Helen. Please be available to pace me for A100 and SDW100.
Because yes, this race was just the first of my 2020 Grand Slam effort. Many ‘Slammers’ did not finish, so that there are fewer than 20 of us left. And the next instalment, the Thames Path 100, is now only a few weeks away.
I planned to have a week off running to recover from NDW100. A worrying knee niggle – in the knee I had surgery on two years ago – means I’ve extended that to 10 days. Tomorrow I will test it with a little jog. I am not contemplating anything other than a green light to start final prepping for the TP100. I don’t want to miss out on the feeling of standing on the start line in Richmond, as a fully fledged member of the Centurion community.
The 2020 North Downs Way 100 of course feels like a remarkable achievement for me as an individual. But I know it is also a communal achievement. The Centurion community made it possible for it to happen at all. The Black Trail Running community gave me incredible support. My personal community, including running club-mates, family and friends, but most particularly Helen Caddy-Leach – made it possible for me to complete it. I look forward to seeing you all on a trail again very soon.
If you want to follow the rest of my Grand Slam journey, follow me on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/runnysonny/
If you want to find our more about Black Trail Runners, follow us on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/blacktrailrunners/
