Three bridges, not too far...
In the Anglo-American WWII film epic, A Bridge Too Far, Dirk Bogarde’s hapless General Browning says, “Quite frankly, this kind of thing’s never been attempted before.” He was talking about parachuting 36,000 men behind enemy lines into occupied Holland. But he could have been talking about the 2020 Grand Slam.
In another year, the Thames Path 100 would have been in May. In another year, it would have been the first of the four Centurion Grand Slam 100 mile races. In another year, it would not have come only four weeks after the Saharan temperatures of the North Downs Way 100. But this is not another year. This is 2020, the year of Covid. So with my legs barely recovered from 103 miles on the North Downs Way in early August, I set off from Richmond on a Saturday morning in early September to run along the Thames Path to Oxford.
This race is the closest to home of all Centurion’s races. I shared a taxi with Harrow neighbour and fellow 50 Slammer last year Julian Desai. Once again, it was a socially distanced two-hour start window, with the race briefing delivered by video in the days before. So we handed over our drop bags, had a pre-race toilet stop, had our temperature taken and set off, at around 8.20am.
I felt almost preternaturally calm. I knew I’d done everything I could to prepare (ie. not very much, just some light running and lots of resting), and having run this race before – my first ever 100 miler – I knew what to expect. In the event, I recognised many parts of the route, while other parts were entirely unfamiliar. I had crew for the first half, and a pacer for the last quarter. The weather was set to be near-perfect for distance running. The only worry I had was that the deep fatigue of the North Downs Way was still in my legs, but I worked hard to push this out of my thoughts.
We jogged along together for the first couple of miles, deciding early to adopt a run/walk strategy. After a while we were overtaken by fellow-slammer Tamatha Ryan, and I sped up to swap NDW war stories with her. She was going at a pace that felt too quick for me, so I let her run on ahead.
Then I had the lovely surprise of bumping into the inspirational Nina Bradburn – who I’d met on my first ever ultra, five years ago – out walking Mojo the dog. We had a too-brief chat and a socially distanced selfie, before I jogged on again. In the meantime, Julian had gone on ahead, and I wouldn’t see him again, only finding out on Sunday morning that he dropped out at Henley.
I settled into a run/walk rhythm that saw me doing 12 minute miles. I’d run for a mile, and then if it took me less than 12 minutes I’d walk until the time was up before running again. I knew this was way faster than I would be able to keep up for the entire race – as it would have been around 20 hour pace – but it felt easy enough. At Walton, the first aid station, I took on water and Tailwind and exchanged a few words with Nicky Yeo and Sharon Dickson, both volunteering. To my surprise, when I left, I was still inside my 12 minute mile pace (some of Helen C-L’s aid station discipline has clearly taken hold), so I figured I’d keep it up for the time being – even while I ate the salted new potatoes I’d cooked the night before. It meant I did the first 15 miles in 3 hours. At which point my self-preservation instinct kicked in, and I deliberately slowed down to 13 minute run/walk miles.
The first crew point was at Staines, 20 miles in, and there I was met by Louise Sprackling a Black Trail Runners member from nearby Maidenhead. I filled my bottles with Tailwind and water, ate a banana and a satsuma, and took a ham sandwich and a sausage roll to eat while walking. It made a big difference, psychologically if not physically, to have my preferred real food options. A major downside of the Covid race adaptations, for me at least, is no sandwiches at aid stations. It also helped that temperatures were reasonable, so that fuelling and hydration were relatively stress free. I was able to pass the Wraysbury aid station without stopping (HCL would be proud!). With crew stops at Windsor, Maidenhead and Marlow, I spent little if any time at the Dorney, Cookham and Hurley aid stations. Cookham was the only one with a little bit of a queue, but I’d learned at NDW100 the merit of jogging ahead of any nearby runners when approaching aid stations. From Staines, I slowed down to 14 minute mile run/walking, still theoretically inside 24 hour pace.
Approaching Runnymede I was unexpectedly met by fellow Metros Running Club members Chris and Gill Shearwood, who’d come out to support me. They’d been dot-watching my GPS tracker, and saw that I was somewhat ahead of where I might have been expected to be. We walked and chatted for a bit, mostly about the Round Norfolk Relay, a virtual version of which we’ve entered this year, and for which I have a 13 mile leg to run at some point in September. Chris and I jogged along for a bit, before I headed off towards Old Windsor.
Somewhere near Bourne End, I heard my name shouted. It was Gregg Quixley, a Facebook friend since my appearance on the Centurion podcast earlier in the year. A number of runners and volunteers throughout the day mentioned they listened to and enjoyed the podcast. It was gratifying to know I had not merely been talking into the void. Indeed, a couple of days before the race I’d appeared on another podcast, Everything Endurance, and had been introduced rather flatteringly as ‘the well-known ultrarunner’. I felt it was incumbent on me to try to live up to that title and put in a reasonable showing. Gregg was out cheering on a few running friends, me among them. We chatted about running shoes and running kit – he’s prepping for Wendover Woods 50. Another selfie, and I was on my own again. Though not for long.
At Marlow I mistook radio DJ and running enthusiast Chris Evans for a marshal, and asked him where the crew point was. Coming into Henley, I ran past a garden ‘festival’ by the river. It was tempting to pop in to take in a couple of acts, but time was getting on, and I wanted to reach my Henley drop bag before dark. Just before the aid station I was met by an old friend, Elisabeth Geake, and her family. We walked and chatted across the bridge and into the aid station. The last but by no means least of the friend-encounters I had before night descended. I reached Henley in around 11 hours 30 minutes. Theoretically sub-24 hour pace, but practically no such thing, with hard, dark, fatigued miles to come.
Henley was the last time I would see my crew, so I knew the next marathon distance would be pretty tough – the third quarter of a race always is for me. I changed my socks and shoes – replacing road shoes with trail shoes – and put on a long-sleeved top, a jacket and my headtorch. By the time I’d done that, I was beginning to get cold. I knew the best way to get and stay warm was to get moving. So that’s what I did. I put on my gloves, only to find they were cold with sweat that had soaked through my pack – a rookie error not to have them in a waterproof bag. I plugged my watch into a charger, put it in my pack, and headed out along the riverbank. The next miles, to Reading, were quiet, running beside the dark Thames, through the shadows of the riverside trees, the moon reflecting off the water. Very much in contrast to the rolling display of wealth – in riverside property and river-going boats – of the first half of the race.
Unexpectedly, Spencer Millbery, my pacer, was waiting outside the Reading aid station with a cool box of Lucozade Sport and various food stuffs. I needed only water and Tailwind from the aid station itself, but still had to climb the infamous steps. The section to Pangbourne seemed much longer than the 8.6 miles it was alleged to be – through the almost deserted riverfront in Reading centre, and through the housing estate which provides pretty much the only thing approaching a hill on the whole course.
When I first did this race in 2017, I’d felt pretty chirpy around Reading, but by Whitchurch (now replaced as an aid station by Pangbourne) I was a nauseous wreck. This time, I was still eating and drinking fine, but I was simply exhausted. Those NDW miles from four weeks before were making themselves felt. I had good memories of the wooded section to Goring – in 2017 I’d bounced along, having recovered my vim during a sit down at Whitchurch which was captured on their time-lapse camera. This time, it was five miles of downcast trudging, with sub-24 hours all but gone, and the thought of more salted potatoes in my Goring drop-bag seemingly the only thing keeping me moving.
It was good to see Melanie McKay among the volunteers at Goring. But I had to take the weight off my feet, and indeed my socks and shoes, while I had a cup of coffee – my first hot drink of the day – and munched some potatoes. Among those runners in the room, all sat socially distanced from each other, undertaking slow motion acts of self-care when not staring into the middle distance, it seemed there was probably only enough energy to propel one of us back out into the night. I figured it might as well be me. Despite being inside, my body temperature was falling again, and I began to shiver. It didn’t cross my mind that I would quit, but I didn’t want to sit around long enough for that thought to manifest itself. It was time to get moving and get warm.
I felt somewhat better for having had a sit down and a warm drink, and the miles to Wallingford felt better than those leading up to Goring. Helped, I think, by a quiet resignation that I was now looking at Plan B – beating my 2017 time. Also knowing that I’d pick up my pacer soon, and that from then on I wouldn’t need to think too much and could be pretty certain of getting to Oxford in one piece.
Sure enough, there was Spencer waiting for me at Wallingford. A quick fluid stop, and we were off into the night. This was only the second time I’d had a pacer in a race, and the experience was somewhat different to that on the NDW. Partly because I’ve known Spencer for years, throughout my ultrarunning ‘career’. And partly because he took a different approach to keeping me moving forward. After a quick healthcheck – a tight groin muscle but no major niggles – he programmed a four minute run, five minute walk into his watch. Of course, this was practical on the pancake flat Thames Path in way that would have been impossible on the North Downs. Even so, I wasn’t sure how well I’d be able to keep it up. In the event, I managed pretty well, even if I say so myself. My running was surprisingly strong, and my walking breaks were purposeful. While the transition from walking to running was painful, running itself was OK, only limited by a rising heart rate. It helped that Spencer was able to tell me that fellow Black Trail Runners co-founder Martin Johnson was having a brilliant race, heading towards a 2nd place finish. MJ is in a different league to me, but I wanted to do my bit representing black trail runners. If I could keep up the regular four minutes of running, I’d feel as though I’d given the race a go, not merely finished it.
But the knowledge of having hours more running to do was mentally challenging. As we headed towards Clifton Hampden, dawn crept over us, and the red sun reflected in the millpond-like river. Spencer took photos, and commented on the natural beauty of the scene. He then acknowledged that with nearly 85 miles behind me, and still another 15 ahead of me, I probably didn’t give a fuck about the pretty sunrise. I confirmed that indeed I had no fucks left to give. By this point I just wanted to be teleported to Oxford, and to have less than a mile to go. And I wanted to have known about the merits of Sudacreme before chafing made my nether regions a hot mess, despite the new 2 in 1 shorts I’d bought to replace the ancient ones I’d had to change mid-way through the NDW100. On the plus side, my feet felt a lot better than they had at Detling in August – perhaps due to me upgrading to Injinji (to Henley) and then Hilly trail socks.
But those final 15 miles had to be run, or at least run/walked. Those around us appeared to be doing more walking than running, and their running was slower than ours. It was still no more painful to run than it was to walk, so we were moving up the field. From Goring to Clifton Hampden, I’d gained eight places. From Clifton Hampden to the finish I picked up another 21. I ran the last 23 miles of the race at much the same pace as I’d run the second quarter. From Lower Radley to the end, Strava tells me I was down to almost 10 minute miles.
By this time, it was clear I was going to come in under 26 hours. Not Plan A, but better than Plan B. Plan B+ then. If Drew’s estimate of the distance from Lower Radley to the finish was correct, I could actually get under 25h30m. The running was hurting now, but this was my new goal. I knew the finish had been moved from the usual sports field, and I knew the new one was by the Donnington bridge. As we came into Oxford, the overgrown path opening into a more civilised towpath, I kept looking ahead for the bridge. We were still doing our four minutes of running – I had it calculated in my head as around 630 steps. I counted them off one by one. And by now I was trying to figure out how many more times I’d have to count the 630 steps. Twelve? Eleven? Ten? I saw a bridge and pointed it out joyfully. It was the wrong bridge. A few lots of 630 later, another bridge up ahead. More joy. More disappointment. Another wrong bridge. Finally, more 630s later, another bridge. This one with spectators clapping runners underneath. This must be it. Yes, under the bridge, up to the left, on and over the bridge, then a hard left to a short downhill under the finish gantry. 25h20m52s. 135th overall. A second buckle in less than a month, and half way through this strangest of all Grand Slams.
Myself, Tamatha, Giacomo Squintani and, I think, 16 others, now have all of five weeks before the Autumn 100, and then another four to the South Downs Way 100. This kind of thing’s never been attempted before, and may never be again.
If this blog isn’t long enough for you, and you want to hear Giacomo and I discussing our TP100 experience, listen to the Run to the Hills podcast here.
