Proud

Last Saturday I ran the most difficult race of my life, the North Downs Way 50. I knew it was going to be a toughie, four weeks after Manchester marathon, which itself was four weeks after Canalathon 100k. I went into the weekend feeling good, I felt strong, and even though training has been somewhat inadequate, I considered those races ideal preparation. Looking at the elevation profile of the race, I knew the hills were going to be the sticking point, but I figured I'd deal with them when I got there.

The day before the race went rather well, with Lyzzi and I "passing" our marriage interview with the registrar, and having a nice meal at a pub local to the race start. Back at the excessively nice room, Lyzzi had a bath and told me to come and feel. No, not like that, I was feeling where the baby is, and after a couple of moments of nothing happening, I gave a little prod of encouragement. What happened completely blew my mind. I put my hand back on the bump, and immediately felt a kick with such force that my hand literally jumped off! Previously, there had been no indication to myself that anything was happening in there, and I thought my introduction to Pumpkin's physical presence and movement was going to be a little more gentle. The first kick is a moment I will never forget, I'm sure I've already mentioned that I'm quite emotional, and it should come as no surprise that (yet again) I bawled my head off. No words will capture what I felt in that moment, such a greeting that will possibly never be beaten except from the first outside light that our child witnesses.

With the sheer joy of that moment fresh in my heart, I set off at 8am on Saturday morning from the start of the North Downs Way at Farnham to make my way to Knockholt Pound and untold glory (a medal and a t-shirt).

As I've already told you, it was literally the most difficult race of my life. Within a few miles, the newer model of my old, beaten up, faithful ultra trainers had started rubbing and I knew the signs that they weren't going to cut it for the day. The only other trainers I had with me were my zero-drop Salomon trainers that I really hadn't put anything more than 10 miles in as I'm nothing of a forefoot striker or barefoot kind of guy. Still, at the first point agreed with crew at mile 14ish, I changed into them and although the blister damage was done with a huge blood blister on my left foot and a huge regular one on the right, I immediately felt a million times better.

But as is the case with ultras, there's always something lurking to catch you off guard, or even if you're aware, it'll catch you when you least expect it. Within a few miles I felt knackered, downtrodden, and generally really f'in miserable. My pace hadn't been particularly crazy, I'd been walking the major uphills, hammering the downhills because that's what I love and am usually pretty nifty at. In short, following all my previous ultra experience. Even doing so, I'd noticeably slowed. My crew made an unplanned stop at 21 miles, which pretty much saved my race. I sat down on the floor, changed socks, cramped up really badly in one leg, punched it off, cramped up worse in the other leg, rolled about a bit in agony, and after massaging it all off, put some calf compression on that I hadn't previously had, and decided that if I could get up without anyone's assistance, the race was back on. 5 minutes later I was hammering it gloriously downhill for almost an uninterrupted beautiful 2 miles. My body got back into it in a big way, and, more importantly, my head.

Box Hill. What can I say about Box Hill? Steps. Lots and lots of bloody steps. After 24 miles, you're suddenly assaulted by this behemoth of an incline that is just relentless. Still, at least the trees gave some shade from the hideous Sun. Did I mention views? This race has a tonne of them. Many are literally breathtaking, and at the top was yet another of these waiting to be had. Along with a half hour wait as my crew were looking for blister plasters for me. I can't complain, they brought me the plasters, I got a rest, and then carried on a lot faster because of it.

From there it was all a head game. My legs and feet had found their stride, I just had to will myself to keep going. Mile by hilly mile went by, slowly but surely. Aid stations came and went, crew points passed, bridge over the M25 occurred somewhat abruptly. All the while basking in the disgusting heat that only the best of British can offer us. On any other day, ANY other day, I'd have been grateful, but not that day. The sun could kindly have done one. But it didn't.

From the aid station around mile 31 to the end, I kept passing people. Admittedly most of them had passed me on Box Hill while I chilled out, but mentally it felt great and kept my spirits high. The last 9 miles were hard, lonely, slow. At one point I looked to my right and had possibly the most spectacular view of the entire race, I stopped. I drew a breath, and I shed a tear. The past couple of months hit me all at once, the racing, the baby preparations, the proposal at a cross country race that I'm still really surprised I got a "yes" to. The significance of it all, and the insignificance of a solitary soul out on the trail late on a Spring Saturday evening.

The ending gantry was in sight, but I knew from previous conversation I had a fair way to go. Now there was some semblance of civilisation again after several long, slow miles I managed to pick it up to the end. Across the field, out on to the road, round the corner by the pub, people cheering. Turning the last corner there was one last uphill, a last sadistic twist of the knife by the (admittedly brilliant) race organisers, Pausing for breath just out of view, I mustered the strength for one final climb and ran like a slow motion action hero jumping out of a building about to blow up. Well, that's how I pictured it. Maybe it was just slow motion, in real time, not out of a building, or like an action hero.



I finished in 11:42:40, just a little outside my somewhat ambitious target of 10 hours. A word of warning if you ever consider entering this: the hills will find you out. Train for them, train long and hard on every hill you can, because they will find you, and they will kill you. This was my best race finish to date, the best t-shirt and medal I'll receive for possibly a very long time, and the most proud moment of my life.

Until today. Today, I found out the gender of Pumpkin. That's the most proud I'll ever be of myself. But it's not for anyone else to know yet, just me, and my support crew.

Not this time..

Frustration. I can't get through the crowds. Trying to keep up with the pacer who's whipping in and out of the seemingly static bodies like a snake through the grass. Feels like the start of a bad dream, but I know it as reality.

I don't remember the start of the 2013 Manchester marathon being anywhere near as crowded as this year's edition, but of course I've not researched the difference in runner numbers to know if it's a fair comparison either. But one thing I do know is that my opening paragraph sums up at least the first 3 miles on Sunday gone, if not a few more.

10k done. I feel comfortable, maintaining a coasting speed that I feel could go on forever, but even though I don't want to admit it, I know in the back of my mind that I'll slow before the end.

I think it was around this point that I started needing a wee. Even though I went to the toilet literally 10 minutes before the gun went off, looking back I think I over-hydrated. I always find hydration the most difficult thing to get right, either not enough and you get dehydrated or too much and you need to stop for the toilet.

"Well done, Sale!" I glance over and give a small wave and smile. I realise I'm crossing the Mersey and the next couple of miles will be uplifting. In a moment of madness, I've already decided to put a little time between me and the 3:30 pacer so I can make the pit stop I need, and have gone from 8 minute miles to about 7:45.

Running through Sale was as great as I expected, lots of familiar faces cheering me on, lots of unfamiliar faces likewise for that matter. I saw another Harrier who should have been running, but due to illness made the sensible decision not to. I can't say I know how it feels to put so much effort in to training and not see it come to fruition, but my heart went out to him. Cheers from club mates and family echoing in my ears, a fresh bottle of Lucozade in my hand thanks to my partner at the unofficial aid station outside our flat, and I was on to a winner. Or so I thought...

I can hear people talking about the 3:30 pacer. At least 2 miles have gone by at a faster pace than I can maintain and it turns out I've put about 20 meters between us. Disappointment. 

I spend at least another 10 miles looking out for a convenient place to answer nature's call, but all the portaloos have queues, and it's too busy most places to just stop at the side of the race.

Halfway. Watch says 1:43 and some change. I allow myself a metaphorical pat on the back. I'm still feeling good apart from the need to wee, which the opportunity to do so will come at any moment. Still, the 3:30 pacer is hanging around like a bad smell. He's beginning to annoy me now. Why hasn't he dropped back yet?

The road leading in to and out of Altrincham is perhaps the most distressing and elating part of the course. For around 3 miles either way, you see first of all the really fast marathoners and think "lucky gits, they'll be done an hour (or more) before me", which is so demoralising it makes you want to hang your Mizunos up right there. But then, on the way back, you have a sense of what the 4:30+ hour marathoners are thinking and you're suddenly struck by an overwhelming sympathy along the lines of "I'd hate to be in your shoes right now, but keep going!". I'll be in the pub with a celebratory beer soon.

"Steve!" My brother-in-law is getting snap-happy by Brooklands tram stop. I give him a smile and a high five, I'm still feeling good knowing I'll see Lyzzi and Pumpkin round the corner, and then it's down to single digit miles remaining.

Round said corner, a series of events was about to happen that I'm sure now was to decide the outcome of my race. Had I already stopped for the wee I so desperately needed, it might have been a different story.

First, I clock Lyzzi on the right. Wait, on the right? I was expecting left. I hadn't thought about how difficult it would be to get through the runners to the other side. I try to get over and shout her attention. I can't get close enough, it's too busy and I can't slow down. I resign myself to the fate of no Lucozade and the possibility of having a brilliant get out clause. I've already had a couple of "can't keep this up" thoughts.
Second, I hear a shout from behind. I turn, and see her running after me, bottle in hand trying to get to me. I decide I have to take it so her effort doesn't go to waste, jumping across the path of other runners to do so, but still tell her off for "running in [her] condition". A few seconds later and I'm running the correct way again, and somewhat belatedly shout "Love you" to her. I don't think she hears. 
Third and perhaps crucially, the 3:30 pacer has passed me. My morale sinks, my legs are beginning to feel the strain and I think about dropping out and heading back for a hug.

No. Not this day. Not this time. Lyzzi's made the effort to run her own personal marathon to keep me in mine, I'm not going to let her down. I can't. I must keep going.

It was at that point that I knew I was going to finish. I've been through much worse, and I'm sure I'll go through worse again. There was no way I was going to drop out, and what's more, I didn't even mind knowing I wouldn't get the 3:30 I so desperately wanted which was snatched away from me 2 years earlier. I decided that I didn't need the extra pressure that time put on me. I would just try and hold on and keep sight of the pacer, then I'd be reasonably close.

"Sod it man, just go" 3 miles later. Still not had my wee. I've just clocked this reasonably sheltered bush by the side of the road. I pull up and nip in and take what seems to be the world's longest pit stop, longer than I'd take to refill my water bladder and have a bite to eat at an aid station during an ultra. I get out and the pacer has disappeared from sight.

It was then I knew full well that literally nothing would get me 3:30 that day. And I was happy. I can't explain it, but I felt more comfortable, was running lighter and easier (probably something to do with the liquid disposal) and I was just happy thinking I will probably still be on for a PB as long as I had no injury.

20 miles. Maths time. 2:40 on the watch. 50 minutes for a 10k? On any given day I'd consider that a nice, warming run. Admittedly I'd probably not have already ran 20 miles. Let's try.

So that's what I did. I tried to pick up the pace again, only to hit resistance. I kept churning effort into my legs, but they weren't responding. It wasn't right. "Don't be a wuss" was what I thought to myself, although I may have used a stronger word. In any previous long distance race I've always believed in mind over matter, when I tell myself to do something, my body can, and will do it. Not this time though. This time I think I've actually done it. I've actually hit the wall. This was confirmed within another mile or so, when I found myself walking, with great difficulty, and not for the last time.

They're judging me for walking. All these hypocritical people who are stood watching, not having the guts to try, are judging me.

Of course, they were not, they were merely satisfying their natural curiosity, trying to get a glimpse of what such a challenge takes. Where this journey takes people. I knew they won't find it there by the side of the road, but I could appreciate why they were there. Supporting friends, family, taking the dog for a walk, are runners themselves. I wanted to be there, comfortable in warm, dry clothes cheering on the gutsy ones. Handing out jelly babies to the masses and hearing a muttered thank you from under a wheezy breath.

I can runners coming towards me. Strange. I check to see I'm still going in the right direction. Ah that makes sense, they're supporters. It's fellow Harriers Paul and Sarah. I give them a wave and a grin, or maybe it was a grimace. I don't know. They cheer me on, and it makes the difference. Suddenly I remember, Harriers don't walk, they fly.

I honestly don't have a clue how much further there was to run at that point, but I made a conscious effort to not walk anymore, which I stuck to. I found myself on the last long stretch of the course, Chester Road, chasing down a 3:35, which, all considered, would be a pretty good time. I had found a new source of energy since the dark patch a couple of miles back, and managed to pass quite a few people from mile 25.

Chin up. Shoulders relaxed. Breathe. Better pick it up here, you can get 3:35, but you've got to want it. Where's that inner speed demon finish you used to have?

Turning the last corner on to Sir Matt Busby Way, I don't remember much. I just focused on the finish line and ran as fast as my legs would carry me. Everything was a blur, cheers and commentary had melded into one monotonous hum and all I could think was "don't throw up". I did remember to stop my Garmin. 3:35:06 is what it said, but I knew there was a little bit of allowance. I wouldn't know until quite a bit later on that my official time was 3:35... and 2 seconds.

Not this time, Steveland. But there's always next time.

Greetings comrades!

So here it is, my not-so-long awaited new blog. It's been so long since I tried to blog I've forgotten how to make it enjoyable, so please bear with me while I find my feet.

Let me introduce myself to those who don't know me. My name is Steveland, I'm 30 years old, and I like to run. A lot. I'm one of those crazy ultra-running people you hear about in passing. The kind of person that will run a regular marathon as training, then probably go out for a "recovery" run of just a few miles the next day (only 5 or so). I'm not particularly fast, but I am generally fit and healthy and in shorter distances I've had reasonable success. I like to race, and will enter as many races as is financially viable. Ultra distance (anything over marathon/26.2 miles) is my favourite, however due to accommodation, gear etc. they also tend to be the most costly.

Also, I'm now a dad.

Some people won't consider it "official" until the baby is born, but to me, baby is just hibernating, so I'm already a dad. And for one simple reason: the worrying has started already.

With this means new responsibilities, financial and otherwise. Time is at a premium, and I was already using my allowance with a full time job, study for a degree, and running all the time. Little Pumpkin is due to be with us around 5th of October.

So, let's get to the crux of the matter. Here I am, 30 years old, feeling like my running years are slowly going the way of the dodo. Admittedly I know they're not, I know guys up to 20 years older than me still busting out my 5k PB for fun on a Saturday morning parkrun. Still, I know the clock's ticking away and I'm eager to get my faster times in while I can. I'm also in my penultimate year of study, which means I won't be done until Summer 2016 at the earliest. Then obviously I now have the ultimate responsibility of fatherhood. I'm already sure the reward will be worth it, I'm excited all the time and if I feel this way now, imagine how awesome it'll be when I'm getting 3 hours sleep a night (if that) getting pooped, wee weed, puked on, having my hair and piercings yanked 72 times an evening...

That's me, and this is my quest. To juggle all of these things and hopefully not let anyone down.

This blog is not going to have a regular post rate, just occasional thoughts and important updates. First on the agenda, Manchester marathon on Sunday. I'll hopefully get to posting a race report/review of my performance afterwards, but for now here's a few key elements:

• currently 3 weeks and 5 days post 100k finish (12 hours 4 minutes)
• aiming for sub 3 hours 30 minutes
• marathon PB sits at 3:44:16 on the same course in 2013 (with broken ribs)

If all goes to plan, I'll be sat in the Trafford pub just after 12:30 with Boundy (aka the infamous "Trackie Dave") with a celebratory pint. I've signed up for Facebook updates so if you're friends with me you'll likely see something on the day.

That's that for now. Time to go and watch The Pacifier to get some awesome tips on how to look after kids from the legend that is Vin Diesel.