Goring, Goring, Done!
A race blog without a witty cultural reference.*
This time last year I was running the Cabbage Patch 10, a long-running (sorry!) road race that starts and finishes in Twickenham. It was the fourth time I’d run it – it’s a flat, fast, well-run (sorry, again!) event with some nice river views – but the only reason I ran it in 2019 was that it formed part of my running’s club’s annual trophy competition. It was a late addition to the list of trophy races, and I wasn’t particularly happy about the fact. If I wanted to win the trophy – and I did want to – I had no choice but to run the race, and to do so on little or no sleep. The race fell on the same weekend as the Autumn 100, where I was due to volunteer, as part of my two year plan to complete the Centurion Grand Slam in 2020. So when I toed the line in Twickenham, it was on the back of just a few hours sleep in my car, parked off the Ridgeway near East Ilsley, where I’d spent much of the day and night before at the mid-way aid station on leg three of the A100, making and serving endless cups of tea, soup and coffee (this was in the before-times), and trying to keep runners dry, warm, fed and mobile. It was a long night, but worth it, because it earned me a place in the 2020 edition of the race (what should have been the final Slam event), I got to spend time with some lovely people, and I learned a lot about how to succeed in a 100 miler in Oxfordshire in October. Oh, and dear reader, I did win my club’s Trophy.
Fast forward 12 months, the world is in the midst of a pandemic and the Cabbage Patch, like many things, has gone virtual. But the Autumn 100, thanks to the hard work and professionalism of the Centurion team, is going ahead in full, 3-D, technicolour glory. But due to Covid-related rescheduling, it’s only the third, rather than the final race of the Slam. When I jog over the bridge from Goring to the start at Streatley, I’ve already completed the (horribly hot) North Downs Way 100 and (fantastically flat) Thames Path 100 within the past nine weeks. But the South Downs Way 100 still lies in the future, a potentially cold, windy, November future.
The morning had started early, with disappointment. My running neighbour, Julian Desai, with whom I shared my 50 Slam journey in 2019, was not feeling well enough to start. So my father drove just me the 50 miles or so to Goring, where I was aiming for an 8am start. A lengthy toilet visit meant I didn’t get underway until 8.10, though I think I had managed to lose a couple of pounds during those extra ten minutes!
In the week leading up to the race, much online chatter had focused on the weather, with pictures of underwater paths circulated by anxious runners, rumours of radical course changes, and even more frantic than usual footwear choice discussions. In the event, as I set off on the first leg along the Thames Path to Wallingford, it was a crisp, bright morning. Over the next day or so, the weather was as benign as we had any right to expect. A couple of rain showers, briefly heavy, but otherwise dry, not too windy and not too cold. My Gore-Tex Saucony Peregrines kept my feet dry in the few deep puddles on leg one, and my toes were never anything other than toasty inside my Injinji socks. My main concern was a mild ankle sprain, which had never really healed after the Thames Path. It seemed ok to run on, but would 100 miles provoke an inflammation to derail my race and Slam?
Although the rolling start window was open until 9am, runners had been urged to start by 8.30am if possible. So when I started, there were only a dozen or so people behind me. I was placed 187th out of 197 at the first turn at Little Wittenham. Not that I knew or cared about this at the time. I was running my own race. Knowing it to be flat, I’d decided to run 12m30s miles on the first leg. A tad slower than I’d started, but failed to maintain, on the Thames Path 100. This meant running until I reached a mile, then walking until 12m30s ticked over, then running again. The time/yards I gained, were eaten up at the aid stations, though I’ve gotten much more efficient in how I use these.
The feature of the A100 which sets it apart from the other Centurion 100 mile races is its 4 x 25 mile out and back format. It provides variety of terrain and under-foot conditions. It offers different organisational challenges. And it fucks with your brain. Why am I running back to the village I’ve just left? How is this stretch of muddy pathway uphill in both directions? Why should I leave this warm village hall, knowing my car is parked a short walk away, to go out for another several hours in the cold, dark night? These are just some of the questions which torment A100 runners.
On the plus side, the format gives you the chance to meet, in passing, every other runner in the race. Having now run ten Centurion events, written many race report blogs, and having appeared on numerous podcasts talking about diversity in trail running, as part of my role as a co-founder of Black Trail Runners, I’m acquainted with many other runners in the race.
Those I crossed paths with on leg one, and with whom I exchanged words of encouragement, included Jamie Streatfield (on his Double Slam journey), Dean Kellaway (Insta-pal, on his first 100 miler), Rob Cowlin, Tracy Fendom, Tracy Watson, Catherine Marriott (all Centurion legends), Tamatha Ryan, Keir Monteith, Allie Bailey and Giacomo Squintani (fellow-slammers), Julius Naim (Bad Boy Running Clubber), Dominic Osman-Allu and Eileen Naughton. Special mention goes to Rachel Dench, fellow Black Trail Runners co-founder, who sadly dropped early on leg two due to digestion issues.
An extra special mention goes to Lee Morgan, Donna Slater and Jo Merlini, with whom I’d shared that East Ilsley volunteering stint a year ago. One of the joys of the Centurion experience, part of what sustains it as a community, is the relationship between running and volunteering. Aid stations are invariably staffed by past and future runners. In 2019, the East Ilsley crew were all keen to run the race a year later, and in the event four of us had made it to the start line. Half a day on the rainswept Ridgeway had been enough to form a bond between us. We’d kept in contact via a WhatsApp group for 12 months, offering each other support and advice. And now here we were, passing and hailing each other on our way to 100 mile glory!
One year, volunteers. The next year, runners. And then, perhaps, volunteers again. The Centurion way. And so of course, I saw lots of volunteers I knew during the course of the day. At Wallingford, it was lovely to see Anna Troup, who I had first seen smashing it at the Wendover Woods 100, and last seen when we were part of the finish crew at last month’s Chiltern Wonderland. There was Lisa at East Ilsley, Greg at North Stoke and Niki Yeo at Swyncombe. And then there was the whole Goring crew, encountered multiple times – Melanie McKay, Emma Finch, Spencer Millbery, Stuart McLaughlin, Zoe Norman, Louise Fraser and Paul Spooner. I’ve done the Goring night shift a couple of times, and know it takes both stamina and compassion. These were there in abundance this year, despite the Covid restrictions on distancing and contact.
Maintaining my pace on the first leg proved to be fairly easy, and I arrived back at Goring almost exactly five hours after leaving. I was encouraged, but not naïve enough to imagine I could maintain that pace over the subsequent legs. I’d gained 10 places on the way back from Little Wittenham, and although my pace would now slow I knew I’d probably gain more places in the subsequent legs. As sure as the sun rises, the majority of ultra-runners set off too fast.
I aimed for 13 minute miles on Leg Two. This was fine to North Stoke, but the inclines up on the Ridgeway towards Swyncombe made it impossible to maintain a consistent pace. I met lots of runners who had started before me and/or were faster than me as they came back through Devil’s Ditch. This was a part of a route I had run a number of times, as it forms part of the Race to the Stones. The ‘field of dreams’ was looking a little forlorn, but it was still good to get a photo and a elbow-bump from Stuart March. Great to see Niki Yeo at Swyncombe, where it appeared I’d just missed a pheasant shoot. The aftermath consisted of more tweed and Land Rovers than one could shake a shooting stick at. I was reminded that we were running across a landscape that, far from being public, was the property of a landed class that goes back centuries. We get to visit their world as tourists, but we have little or no control over it. Read ‘Who Owns England’ by Guy Shrubsole for more on this.
This was the only part of the day with inclement weather. A couple of rain showers, one heavy, that required me to don my waterproof jacket long enough to remind me of the necessity for carrying mandatory kit and beyond that, the best kit you can afford. Last year’s A100 had been a nightmare of persistent rain and bone-chilling temperatures. At East Ilsley we had tried to keep ill-equipped runners warm and less wet with hastily-improvised rain jackets fashioned from bin bags. We’d staved off hypothermia for one runner by stripping them of all wet clothes and layering them with everything we could find, including the blankets and sleeping bags we’d later need to have our post-shift kip in our cars. I’d made a point of observing the kit that had kept runners’ races on track, and had followed the post-race online chatter about what kit had worked. I wasn’t going to let my race be derailed by having inadequate protection from the weather.
From the start I’d been running in a t-shirt with a Salomon zip-up base layer over the top. When the rain arrived, I put the Montane Minimus jacket in my pack over the top. It was less about staying dry than about staying warm.
I changed the t-shirt under my base layer at 25 miles. And at 50 miles I changed both layers, and added my Montane Fleet jacket over the top. I had Montane Polartec gloves and Montane Primaloft mittens. There are two points to make here. First, lack of the appropriate kit can definitely be the difference between finishing and not. Second, either lack of knowledge or lack of funds can preclude correct kit choices. These events are not equally accessible to everyone. Your experience is not the experience of others. If I did not know to have Gore Tex shoes, two waterproof jackets and gloves and mittens, or if I could not afford them, I would likely not be sat here writing this with my A100 buckle hanging on the wall behind me.
My pacing plans, such as they were, had been shot to shit by the uphill section out to Swyncombe. But of course, coming back the profile was effectively downhill, despite a sharp ascent shortly after the turn. I made good time back to Goring, clocking six hours for the leg. And that with time to capture one of those ‘awe moments’, with the sunlight bursting through the trail-side trees and illuminating the fields beyond. Sometimes, regardless of the race situation, you just feel compelled to stop and capture the moment.
I was happy to have reached halfway in 11 hours, and without having to unpack my headtorch. In the warmth of the village hall I got ready for what I knew would be a difficult third leg. I put on a dry t-shirt, a long-sleeved top and my Fleet jacket. I also had another long sleeve top in my pack, as well as my mandatory emergency baselayer. And for this leg, the mittens came too.
On my way through Streatley I realised I’d not only neglected to don my running tights, but hadn’t even transferred them to my pack. A rookie error. I made the quick decision not to return to retrieve them. My legs never seem to get cold, and I had enough gear to keep my head, hands and body warm. As long as I kept moving. But of course, if I didn’t move, my race would be over in any case.
By now it was dark, and runners passed going in the opposite direction were no more than fleeting ghosts in the glare of a headtorch. A muttered ‘well done’ was all that was possible by way of recognition. I was heading out to East Ilsley, where I’d volunteered the year before. I knew what the location looked like, but as my watch was charging in my pocket, I didn’t know how far I’d run, or indeed how far into the leg it was anyway.
When it hove into view, the aid station had a festive feel, with multi-coloured glow-stick runways leading in and out. If we’d had those last year, we’d have spent less time chasing after errant runners taking the wrong route back to Goring. After a change of headtorch batteries, I was on my way with my watch back on my wrist, tracking every metre of the muddy slog up to Chain Hill, a leg to match the dispiriting name.
This was the slowest, hardest part of the race for me. Seven miles or so that seemed to go on forever. Endlessly uphill, with long stretches of muddy tracks underfoot, alternately claggy and slippy. I was wary of turning or overextending my sore ankle, so proceeded with caution. There was very little running, and the thought of a sub-24 hour finish receded inexorably. Having said that, it could have been a whole lot worse. It wasn’t raining, and although it was cold, it wasn’t nearly as cold as the clear sky might have suggested. At one point I stopped, turned off my headtorch and put my head back to look up at the star-filled night sky. Another ‘awe’ moment. It was beautiful, and unlike any sky I can ever see at home in Harrow.
Eventually, Chain Hill aid station came into view like an oasis in the desert of mud. It felt like the end of the line, in a way that the other turning points didn’t. A little island of light and music, surrounded by nothingness. There was the sense that once a runner left its cosy camaraderie, they were very much on their own.
On the way up to Chain Hill I’d overtaken half a dozen runners, and now I saw them again, crossing paths as they continued their trek up to the checkpoint. I was able to do more running on the way back down to East Ilsley, and overtook more runners as I did so. On the runway out of the aid station, I was overtaken by a runner who had not stopped there at all. She jogged on past me, and while I kept her light in sight for much of the way back to Goring, she was the only human presence I saw for the entire six miles or so.
After that stretch of solitary running, it was a bit of a shock to get back to the relative crowd of the village hall. But I was feeling in pretty good spirits. It had taken me seven hours to complete Leg 3, but that meant I effectively had 10 hours to compete the last 25 miles. Pretty much nothing short of a broken leg was going to stop me getting my buckle.
Pacers were allowed for the final leg of the race, and I had Andy Law waiting for me to accompany me over the last 25 miles. Three years ago, I’d seen Andy come in from leg three of that year’s race, determined to quit. Eventually, after a lot of cajoling, and the offer of pacing from Helen Caddy-Leach (my pacer at NDW and, hopefully, SDW this year), he was persuaded out on to the final leg to Reading, and earned his buckle. Since then, he has vastly improved his marathon time, and smashed this year’s NDW100. He kindly offered to pace me this year, and I took up the offer for this race, having learned the value of a pacer in my last couple of races.
Pacers, as they are understood in this kind of event, are pretty much unknown to those who haven’t run further than 50 miles at a go. The Centurion website says that ‘Pacers are allowed solely as a safety consideration for fatigued runners.’ Of course, as part of this, they provide encouragement, motivation and support, taking some of the decision-making load away from tired runners. A pacer’s motivation can range from merely wanting to help a friend, to getting in a training run, or giving back to the sport. Stay up all night to run 25 or 50 miles with a tired, grumpy companion who is as likely to swear at you as swap banter, with no medal, t-shirt or official result at the end of it. It’s another special aspect of the Centurion and wider ultra-running community. I’m putting it out there now, that I’m available for pacing duties at the Centurion 100 milers in 2021. If Helen, Spencer and Andy aren’t available, I’m there for you.
Andy and I had met up for a run the week before, but hadn’t agreed a pacing strategy; at that point I had no idea whether I’d be breezing along or chasing cut-offs. I needn’t have worried, because now I saw him conversation with Spencer Millbery, my pacer at the TP100. This was either a good thing, or a bad thing, I wasn’t sure.
I changed my socks and shoes and took a bathroom break before heading out again, and I remembered to take my running tights – though in the event they stayed in my pack. Andy and I headed out on the final leg, first to Pangbourne, then to Reading – infamous for the ‘Welcome to Reading’ sign that comes several miles before the turning point.
Apart from the route out of Goring, the section along the Thames Path to Reading was one with which we were both very familiar. I’ve now run the Thames Path 100 twice. So I knew there was some up and down woods bits, then a fair amount of flat grass and towpath running. We agreed we’d walk the ups and run the rest, for the woods section, then adopt the run four minutes walk four minutes approach on the flat parts. This seemed to work well, and Andy was soon telling me my running form was remarkably good considering the 75+ miles already in my legs. And I actually did feel pretty good. Strangely, given the crazy race schedule I’d had, I felt better at this point in the race than I had on the North Downs Way two months prior. Maybe it was to do with better kit choices, or maybe it was down to experience, or perhaps I was just fitter. Whatever it was, it meant I was able to run at a reasonable pace pretty regularly, and it was no more painful than walking – with really only my heart-rate acting as a limiting factor on how long I could run.
Around us, most others were walking rather than running. And when they were running, we were still running faster than them. So we were overtaking people fairly regularly, on the way out to Reading, and on the way back. The time trial format meant that it was impossible to know whether passing someone on the road equated to passing them in the rankings. Our conversations went something along the lines of:
Andy: There’s another light up ahead. Me: Yeah. Andy: We can catch them. Me: Yeah. Andy: Time to run. Me: I’m probably already ahead of them on paper. Andy: Yeah. Me: OK, let’s run.
In this manner, I gained 14 places on the way to Reading, and another 12 on the way back. I ran a negative split over this last leg, getting back to Goring around six minutes faster than it had taken me to get to Reading. If an ultrarunner tells you they’re not competitive, and it’s all about the experience, do not believe them.
On the outward part of the leg, it was still dark. Orion was staggeringly clear in the sky. If I’d had the energy, I might have drawn some allusion between his appearance and my hunting down other runners. As it was, we were instead surprised to find ourselves running through a field of sleeping cows. The industrial quantities of cow-dung under foot should have alerted us to their presence, but instead it was with some shock that we suddenly noticed them, dark and eerie, to the right of us, and to the left of us. Thankfully, they were too sleepy to mark our passing with anything more than a slow blink of their eyes. Similarly, the dozens of geese and swans roosting on the rowing club’s plastic pontoon paid us little mind.
The leg out to Reading is notorious for feeling longer than it has any right to. The infamous ‘Welcome to Reading’ sign inspires hope for the runner with more than 80 miles in their legs, only for seemingly endless miles of subsequent towpath to crush those hopes under thousands of foot-strikes. And Reading aid stations has the most comfortable chairs on the route; you should not sit down without a well-worked plan for how and when you’re going to get back up. I ate one of my remaining boiled and salted baby potatoes. I should have eaten more, as Andy had been reminding me to keep the calories coming in, but I really didn’t feel like solid food by this stage. I was happy to cover the remaining miles on gels and Tailwind. Having filled my bottles for the last time, had a wee, and faffed with my shoes, we headed out on the final 12.5 miles.
As we re-passed all the landmarks we’d only recently passed in the other direction, the sky began to lighten, and the runners around us came into focus. There were the swans and geese again, now noisily awake. There was the blue Vauxhall Corsa in the Reading car park with its engine still running and its windows still steamed up – ah, innocent youth! There were the cows, now visible from afar and not nearly so sinister.
We didn’t enter the Pangbourne aid station on the way back, pausing only long enough for a volunteer to tell me how they’d enjoyed my podcast interview on the lack of diversity in trail running. Throughout the day, I’d had various greetings from people who knew me only through my work with Black Trail Runners, which campaigns to increase the participation, inclusion and representation of Black people in trail running. Andy quipped that he wasn’t used to running with a celebrity. My increased profile, such as it is, is both uncomfortable, and welcome in so far as it helps to raise the issue of the underrepresentation of people of colour in trail running and other outdoor sports. Beyond my own personal sense of achievement, I now feel as though my performance in races reflects my representation of something bigger, and I am spurred on accordingly. Or maybe I’m just being a precious dick.
Shortly after leaving Reading I’d calculated that some determined running could mean a new 100 mile PB for me, quicker than the one I’d set five weeks earlier at TP100. As we reeled off the miles, down to single digits, then less than 10k to go, it became apparent I could do better than that, and come in under 25 hours. This was the spur I needed to put in some proper running miles through the woods between Pangbourne and Goring.
Andy had been doing a fine job of encouraging me by praising my running form. Though this was slightly undermined by his transparent attempts to persuade me that the next aid station or landmark was ‘just up ahead’. As we approached Goring, I knew that the tell-tall sign of the end approaching was the sound of the weir. It had welcomed me back to the starting point on each of the three previous legs, and it did so again now. As we entered the village, the remaining distance began to crystallise, and looking at my watch I saw I had nearly 10 minutes in which to come in under 25 hours, almost a 30 minute PB. It was time to run again, and I jogged the final few hundred metres to the village hall and over the timing mat, before coming to a halt, hands on knees, head bowed in thanks and relief. Another hundred miles completed. 75% of the Grand Slam done. One more race between me and a goal I’ve been planning since 2018. I had visualised receiving my buckle with such intensity that I forgot that I would get a t-shirt too. Picking it up was almost as satisfying as the bowl of hot chilli provided my Nick Sheffield, food I could now eat without fear, now that I no longer had to put one foot in front of the other.
There were congratulations from, and thanks to, Andy, pushing me to a sub-25 hour time. Also congrats from my friends among the volunteers – Spencer, Stuart, Zoe, et al – and from the Centurion team – James, Nici, Drew, Nina, Jan et al.
This year’s Grand Slam calendar has become so compressed that I left Goring in the full knowledge that I’d be seeing many of the same people again before my legs and heart had fully recovered from the weekend’s exertions. And sure enough, maybe 48 hours later, the first ‘information for entrants’ email for the South Downs Way 100 dropped into my inbox. Winchester beckons, and 100 miles beyond it, Eastbourne, the end of my Grand Slam journey, God-willing.
*My race reports are usually framed around some kind of witty cultural reference, whereby my race experience is made analogous to the experience of some character in a cultural artefact chosen partly for its aptness and partly for its demonstration of my erudition and eclectic cultural literacy.
This report has no such reference. I like to think it does not need one. Because this was an event which was culturally entire in itself. Perhaps because of its format, or because my own growing experience of running 100 mile races renders my understanding of the process more complete, there is no need of comparison, no need to consider it in terms of something more familiar. It has become the familiar. It is all that is necessary. For the time I am in the race, nothing outside it exists. There is the race – the distance, the physical experience, the weather, the landscape, the fellow-runners, the ‘awe moments’ comprising glimpses of emergent perspectives or celestial hemispheres – and nothing else. Nothing else is necessary.
But if I had included a witty cultural reference, it would have been this. In Quentin Tarantino’s WWII romp, Inglourious Basterds, Brad Pitt’s Lieutenant Aldo Raine is known for carving a swastika on the forehead of Nazi prisoners. When we first see him do it, Eli Roth’s Sergeant Donowitz comments that he’s ‘getting pretty good at that’. And that is how I now feel about 100 mile races. I’ve run three in nine weeks, and I’m getting pretty good at them.
