Bittersweet - The power and pain of a DNF

Focus

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After months of preparation, countless hours of training and fine tuning – all seemingly for nothing. I had an element of personal pride in the fact that I'd doggedly finished every race I'd entered up to press. I now question whether that was truly an accolade, or just pure stubbornness to the detriment of the bigger picture.  I suppose it is naïve to expect to this unbroken run to continue in the face of a slew of 100 milers (3 booked in this year), especially still as a relative rookie.

I draw some satisfaction, however menial and personal, that my race at the Lakeland 100 was drawn to an early conclusion through illness. I hate to think I've quit anything in life, yet through honest reflection, a couple of weeks later now I have started to come to terms with this outcome. Most importantly I need to extract any lessons learnt and experience gained.

The defining factor is the determination I've galvanised from this adventure. I felt utterly destroyed both physically and mentally by my apparent failure. With this as a painful memory, I'll continue to attack my races with the same indomitable will and determination to try and avoid this emotion in the future.

The Race

My plan on race day was to approach the whole experience in a much more relaxed manner this time around. Waking up to miserable, dark, rain filled skies in Sheffield, yet the promise of sunnier climes kept my mood favourable. We set off in what felt like good time to reach the Lakes before deciding on a stop off for lunch. My daughter had the honours of choosing our nutritional intake – inevitably it would always be her favourite, KFC. Whatever possessed me to partake in this poor pre-race meal option I'll never know. Equally I'll never know if it was a contributing factor in my ultimate demise.

On we went after a mountain of fried chicken, and subsequently got caught in the mother of all traffic jams. This became a secondary factor in respect my rising stress levels. However after some route diversions we descended on Coniston with enough time to register and get myself prepped. And so after kit check and race briefing I had a short while to chat with the ever friendly Rupert Bonnington of Mountain Fuel and Vincent from Salomon. All the while the sun was getting ever hotter...

The first climb towards Old Man of Coniston

We collected in the starters pen, having being dibbed in, and I took the opportunity to wish Stuart Percival well in his race before the usual ritual of Nessun Dorma being sung. As the countdown to the start ticked away I reflected on how I felt, it's hard to put it into words, I just felt a little out of sorts.  Like my body didn't belong to me, a slightly queasy feeling in my stomach and weak legs. I shrugged it off as nerves and the race started with a wave of overenthusiastic, tapered ultra-runners charging through Coniston and up the first mountain.

The ascent up Walna Scar proved to be my first notification all was not well. My legs felt like lead and I was just sweating profusely. It was in stark contrast to the recce run I'd done a few weeks prior from Coniston to Braithwaite. On that occasion I'd effortlessly covered the 35 miles and 10,000ft of ascent, nailing my nutrition plan in the process. I'd easily sustained my effort on Mountain Fuel Xtreme energy and Mountain Fuel - homemade banana flapjacks. Yet here I was toiling up the first hill less than a mile into the race. I thought back to the previous year, where once again I'd felt pretty awful over that first ascent, yet that day had proved successful as I brought things around to finish my first 100 miler in 26hrs. I consciously backed off the pace and tried to allow things to unfold naturally. As I summited over the pass, I used the rocky descent into Seathwaite to recover and try to turn things around.

This quite naturally brings me to what I now consider another mistake in this years race. I was being far too goal orientated, planning for a 24hour time at the slowest, with aspirations for an even faster time than that. The issue being that even at this early stage I was too concerned with my splits. I hit Seathwaite aid station pretty much bang on to the previous years time. Which at this point was fine, but as the evening progressed and I started losing time, it would prove to be part of my undoing.

Salomon S-Lab Sense eating up the rocky terrain

The run out of Seathwaite is always a pleasant run through the woods, which is reminiscent of the trails I run on daily; rooty and technical. So here, in my element I started to feel at least fairly good. As we hit a short but steep ascent after a farm yard, a group of about 5 runners had all come together. I took the opportunity to get some solid food in me in the form of some flapjack, all the while sipping on Mountain Fuel. The flapjack took a good 5 minutes to eat as my mouth was completely dry. Along with the profuse sweating and general weakness I drew the conclusion that I was probably quite poorly. I could try forever to pin this down to something, maybe the KFC for lunch, the heat or even a lingering cold/illness I'd been harbouring on the run up to the race? But it now seems pretty redundant, sometimes you've just got to take the hand you're dealt with and try to do your best. I'm often guilty of debriefing and dissecting my races down to the last detail. Sometimes this may look like a reason to find excuses, but I'm ambitious and want to discover my weaknesses in order to improve and perform better in the long run.

So it was with this resignation that I soldiered on hoping something might change over the next 24, or so hours of racing. I actually started to enjoy myself again on the climb over to Boot, although it wasn't lost on me just how wet it was underfoot meaning another bout of 'trenchfoot' by Dalemain. I managed to tag onto the back of a couple of runners, which helped me run up the boggy climb. Despite my plight I could still sense the fitness I'd attained on the build up to the race and really enjoyed the moment racing with the two guys, dancing around the mud and rocks. A slight error of nav as we began the descent to Boot before we once again we picked up the pace a little. On the steep, wet, grassy decline I expected some slips and falls but the Salomon S-Lab Sense gripped admirably. I'd considered going for the Salomon Soft Ground, but was pleased the Sense were performing great.  As we ran through a farm yard and onto a single track road I saw a familiar looking runner walking up ahead. As I neared him I realised it was Richard Ashton who'd been nursing a grim looking ankle injury on the week leading up to the race. After a quick chat to check on his welfare it transpired that he'd rolled it again a couple of times and was looking to drop at Boot. I told him I'd let them know at the aid and if needs must get someone to come pick him up.

Keeping positive into Wasdale

Onward over the next section of stunning riverside trail, and once again I felt like I was moving reasonably well, even gapping the two runners I'd been sharing the journey with for a short while. Running into Boot, the pubs were full and a rapturous cheer lifted my spirits as I prepped some Mountain Fuel for the aid station. The sight of the ever friendly and always smiling Debbie Martin-Consani lifted my mood further as she tended to my nutritional needs, allowing me a second to gather myself and look at the food on offer. Grabbing a single HobNob, really just for the sake of it I think, I started a purposeful hike up and out of the aid station. It was starting to feel futile where on a steady incline up to Burnmoor Tarn I just couldn't get moving more than a slow shuffle. Comically this painfully slow meander was enough to keep those behind me at bay, but at the same time I wasn't reeling anyone in front either.

As the view down towards Wasdale and Kirk Fell opened up, I couldn't help but smile and revel in the moment. Even though I was suffering and clearly having a bad race, it's always good to remember why we put our bodies through this. I tackled the steep descent into Wasdale with a guy called Ben and another friendly Dude. Conversation was minimal though, so it seemed we were all suffering a bit.

The Sunderland Strollers lifting the spirits of a broken man

As the light really began to fade with the setting Sun, I entered the aid station. This aid is run by the Sunderland Strollers and is always a frenetic hive of energy. This year was no exception, with Tony Allen enthusiastically welcoming me into the aid. There seemed to be quite a few runners lingering at the aid, and I was both happy and saddened to see Ian Radford sat looking tired and dejected. I'd run most of the Lakeland 100 last year with Ian and was looking forward to sharing some of the journey again with him. However Ian had gone out quite quick, maybe as a result of all those lightning fast marathons he's been running, and he was paying the price dearly. The aid crew got to work sorting my bottles out and adding Mountain Fuel while I looked at the food. I think I grabbed some crisps before a quick group photo with the Strollers and left with a purpose ready to take on the always enjoyable Black Sail Pass. As I started the climb I still felt weak, and it hit me again how strong I'd felt a couple of weeks prior when running the same section. But it seemed as the ascent steepened rapidly, not only was I resigned to a hike, but it felt painfully slow. As I crossed the fast stream halfway up I took a minute to drink loads of water and try to refresh myself. This was where I switched my Petzl headlamp on as a moonless sky finally turned ink black. It wasn't lost on me that this stream crossing was where I fell the previous year and injured my knee. An injury I would go on to suffer for the remaining 85 or so miles to the finish. The thought of trying to do the same again felt inconceivable, yet last year it was a finish no matter what mentality and no real time pressures. Yet here I was with my legs and joints feeling fresher than I've known for some time – I just couldn't muster any energy to drive them upwards and onwards.

I got my head down as a pair of runners came past me and trudged up the near vertical switchbacks. I rounded a corner to see a guy sat down, clearly exhausted. Johnathon (as it read under his race number) told me he was finished. He planned to walk over to Buttermere and look at dropping from the race. His thoughts dangerously echoed that of my own, in that he couldn't perform anywhere near his ability due to zero energy levels. I'd been shoving negative thoughts to the back of my mind as much as possible, but as John joined me on the slow climb up the pass his own fears became infectious. What was the point in destroying myself for a sub-standard race performance? I immediately chastised myself for such negativity and pushed on. We topped out over the pass and descended into Ennerdale Valley. The night wasn't helping on this technical section, requiring hands on rock to climb down certain parts. But here again, when gravity assisted my running I starting thinking things might be getting better. False hope in reality as the next climb would brutally kick the confidence and energy back out of me. I managed some fairly decent running along the valley bottom picking up a nice cadence, now leading a short train of about 5 runners that had concertinaed together.

Black Sail Pass in the daylight

The next climb up Scarth Gap came all too quick and it was back to hands on knees. So much was the effort, I stepped to one side to let the other runners lead up the mountainside. I tagged on the back and just tried to hang onto them - demoralising doesn't seem a strong enough word. I grabbed some flapjack from my bag and tried eating it. I managed half before I felt queasy, my stomach audibly unhappy with the strain I was putting my broken body through. I've been sick in plenty of races, usually it ends up being a fingers down the throat, self induced affair. Sometimes this can offer a bit of a reset, and you can look to rebuild the contents with some quality nutrition. Not this time – I literally projectile vomited instantaneously onto the trail in front of me. The final confirmation of my state of ill-being. I collapsed onto the side of the trail and continued to dry heave what little was left in my stomach. I gave myself a minute before I crawled onto my feet and continued up the trail. It didn't seem too long before I was over the top and dropping down towards Buttermere, once again alone on the pitch black trails. 

Despite my sugar deprived state I managed to wobble along the trail, fast enough to overtake John again. Now to compound my ongoing woes my stomach started cramping painfully. I wondered if I'd strained my abdominals through the vomiting but couldn't be sure. Then just before I reached the village of Buttermere I was startled to see, in the beam of my torch light, 3 West Highland Terriers wearing Christmas Jumpers!?! My first thoughts were that this must be something the aid volunteers had arranged to amuse the runners coming into the village. However it transpired it was just a vivid hallucination, and as I neared, the Westies slowly morphed into the 3 bewildered sheep they actually were. Bizarre.

As I came into the aid station I was welcomed with the promise of some soup and bread. I declined the bread due to my new-found wheat intolerance, although on retrospect I think this was a mistake as the extra calories would have undoubtedly helped. Still the soup was a godsend, and it went down nicely. James Elson was casually putting some warm clothes on as he had dropped from the race. I was a little shocked as I'd anticipated both him and Rick Ashton to be racing for the podium. James reasons once again echoed my own sufferance stating low energy levels. 

Still I had a task to accomplish so I didn't hang about too long before I set off up the next climb – the ever brutal Sail Pass. I shared some of early section with another kind runner, although his name eludes me now – sorry. As we contoured along the path, dipping into the stream cloughs, conversation was again light and I really wasn't feeling any better. We reached the third clough and the other runner cut straight across the stream bed. I considered for a moment whether to follow suit, but I had a word with myself and if I was to finish this race, I would make sure I'd legitimately covered every inch. So once again, I was by myself as I cut deep into the clough and crossed the stream higher up where I was meant to. I steadily sipped my Mountain Fuel Xtreme Energy, and in all fairness it was the only thing that was keeping me ticking over as solids were still out of the question.

The mellow part of Sail Pass

When the trail kicked really steep, after the scree slope I was feeling the effort so I kept the pace light. Not that I had much choice, with my stomach continuing to cramp every so often. I once again sat down on the trail to recover and soak up the atmosphere. I'm the sort of person that likes to 'race' these events, and that's not to decry people who enter to travel the course at a relatively 'easy' pace. Far from it, I'm almost looking forward to a time when I'm older and hopefully still able to run these events, where I can move at a more sociable pace and really enjoy the routes. But for the time being (competitiveness and ambition I guess) I hate slowing too much and especially stopping. I rarely spend more than a couple of minutes in aid stations and unless, like today where I'm having issues, I'd never normally stop on the trail. Of course the fact that my body was slowly shutting down wasn't really giving me an option. So I sat in the darkness and turned off my torch. I looked back down the valley towards Buttermere and could see a few torch lights weaving up towards me. Glancing in the direction I was headed, it seemed a blessing that I couldn't see how far I had left to climb. After a minute or so I got back to my feet and pushed on. I think this was either premature, or I'd unsettled myself by resting but a few steps later I sort of keeled over and blacked out. I can't describe the sensation, but the sheer effort of moving with my symptoms, it was like my body just gave out for a second. This should have been the last straw really and the decision to drop at Braithwaite was the only sensible thing left to do.  Unfortunately I don't often do sensible, it just feels too mainstream, lol. I'm not particularly special in any way, so by trying to push beyond my limits at least allows me to attain a sense of achievement and personal achievement.

I was joined by another runner for the descent into Braithwaite and we actually had a nice chat which pepped me up a bit. The company actually served to distract me from the intense pain in my stomach. Which ultimately led us to a route error, dropping us much further down the valley than we needed to. A quick detour up through the steep bracken strewn hillside and we were back on track. Ironically I guess, I'd made the very same nav error on my recce, but that was in daylight. It was only by using the GPS track on my Suunto that I'd noticed in the darkness.

As we picked our way through the village of Braithwaite I told my new friend of my pains and the consideration that it might just not be my day. He encouraged me to keep going and dig deep which helped steel my resolve. I took some time at the aid station to have sit down and try to put some more calories in. I had a bowl of cold rice pudding with jam in, something I hadn't sampled since I was a child so it brought back some pleasant memories. This seemed to actually help a little, so as more runners started to stream into the aid I got up and left. 

The next 2 miles or so went pretty well, the level ground meant I could run smoothly and not jostle my stomach too much. It also meant I really thought I could still bring this thing home. Of course the climb up the side of Latrigg was the reality check I needed that all was still not well in the 'Kirky' camp. It was frustrating to think I'd had the pleasure of running up this ascent in the company of Kilian Jornet at the Salomon event a few weeks prior, but was now  resigned to a desultory walk in the dark. It was soon over though and I ran into the long valley which leads to the Blencathra aid. I was surprised to see a number of torchlights stringing along the length of the valley in front of me. I must have actually made up some time since Braithwaite. This joyous thought was short lived though as the stomach cramps increased in frequency and intensity. And as I reached the end of the valley and began to return leg on the opposite side I was confronted by a fair few torchlights in pursuit. I think this is what finally caused something to snap in my mind. I knew I needed some significant time at Blencathra to really sort myself out. I hadn't taken enough time at the previous aids to resolve much and my performance was suffering even more as the night passed. This sight of all the runners giving chase made me realise I was now fully out of any real race for a time or position I would truly be proud of. The momentous effort to get round in the state I was, was only going to result in a much flawed outcome goal. Which neatly takes me back to my problem, I was so outcome oriented I was rapidly losing sight of the necessary process goals to get this thing done. 50 milers, although in some ways harder in different ways due to pace, can almost be blagged with poor nutrition or physical issues. But with the gargantuan effort required to complete a 100 miler, one has to have 100% resolve that you won't stop, no matter what. My soul was now crushed, I felt like crying if I'm being even slightly honest here. My motivations in complete tatters, and the crippling pain in my belly taunted me further.

I practically fell into the Blencathra Aid, so much so the staff there could tell immediately I was in dire straits. They were amazing in tending to my needs, trying to force food down me. They made me a big mug of sweet tea too to try and turn it all around. I verbalised my thoughts on a dreaded DNF, but was strangely surprised when they adamantly told me not to. I always expected aid staff to be more likely to pull someone from a race as opposed to pushing them on. I think this was one of the last positive thoughts I might have had on a completion before my newly filled stomach griped in agony. It hurt so much I ended up curled under a table on the floor and promptly fell asleep for about 30 minutes or so. I can't imagine how weird it must have looked to other runners coming through, for me to be sprawled comatose on the floor – not that I would have even cared at that point.

When I finally sat up rubbing my eyes, I climbed onto a chair and while I spoke with Little Dave about my options, I was greeted with a most pleasant sight. My good friend from up North, Stuart Percival wandered into the aid station. His face amused me most as he saw me sat forlorn in the chair. I explained I'd been there for nearly an hour now, but wanted to get to Dalemain (60 mile point) with him. He was equally happy for the company so we set of with renewed vigour. Just the small matter of another 20 miles of feeling like crap…

Stuart and me enjoying the moment

The morning was just beginning to break as we tackled the new section towards the Old Coach Road. We effectively interspersed running and walking as best we could. Stu was suffering a bit with pains in his knee through ITB so we generally worked to whatever pace was comfortable for him. It was great to run along together and have a great chat. We even managed a comedy 'walking speed' overtake past three guys on the climb onto the Old Coach Road - don't think it was lost on them either. I actually enjoy this section as its nicely rolling and supremely runnable. We must have been moving reasonable well as we made the overtake stick and even caught and passed another runner further up the trail. The sun was fully rising into an amazing skyline which really made me appreciate the moment. I was truly grateful I'd managed to at least see the sunrise, and even if it all ended soon I'd secured some great memories. 

As the sun rises over Old Coach Road

I knew in my mind I'd made my mind up to seriously consider dropping at Dalemain, so it was a bittersweet experience. But most of all I was grateful of the opportunity to share some of Stuart's race with him. I'd even like to think I helped him along over those last 20 miles.

We reached Dockray and my pains were still getting worse after the slight respite of my sleeping/fuelling stop at Blencathra. I made sure I topped up my Mountain Fuel, which I was still drip feeding to keep me going. It was the only thing that didn't exacerbate my stomach problems and kept a steady flow of energy. Not that my body was being in anyway effective at utilising it.

Just pacing a climb up Gowbarrow Fell

At the risk of letting this narrative continue forever; the next 11 miles or so went by with a mix of doubling over with cramps, many great laughs with Stuart, the amazing views from Gowbarrow Fell down to Ullswater, before the final mind numbing trudge through Dacre and onto the Dalemain estate.

The stunning views over Ullswater

Over the long featureless drag through the Dalemain estate my mind began playing tricks on me. Despite my pains I was still considering the immense energy and pain tolerance that would be required to continue, and even if I could in fact do it. It was when I saw my kids in the distance that with overwhelming emotion I knew I was finished. Every scrap of my being had been pushing for the last several hours to return me to my family. The sheer pain and hardship all seemed to release the emotion at once. A hug with my kids and Emma was the final straw, and my salvation.

We ran into the aid, an outdoor tent, which was full of broken runners so we were relegated to a chair outside. I slumped into the chair and explained to Emma what had transpired overnight. I think she knew I was done, but didn't want to tell me to stop. She rightly let it be my own decision. And even then as Stuart sat busily in the next chair sorting his feet out I had a fleeting moment of indecision.

It turned out a paramedic would be the one to help make that fateful choice. Obviously concerned about my wellbeing (I must have looked rough!) she checked my levels. It transpired my oxygen, blood pressure and sugars were all dangerously low. She didn't pull my race, but she recommended it. In my pathetic little existence, this was a monumental junction...

Trying to make light with the paramedics in my darkest hour

Which road to take, one of apparent failure or drive on to oblivion? I'm not going to write an honest and frank race report to then end it with a lie. I could have continued, I might have faltered further down the line, God forbid it could have even resulted in death. But equally I could've made it to the end, but at what cost? Last year it took me several months to recover fully. I think I made the right choice to withdraw. It'll take a lot longer to convince myself that it's so conclusive, but I'll continue to try.

The aid member came over and cut my dibber, effectively ending my race. I didn't initially feel the heartbreak I expected, that came later. Rather my body had a massive feeling of relief and salvation. It was as we walked to the car I felt the first tinges of regret. Then a couple of hours later, rested and feeling fully recovered I was gutted. My soul was destroyed, I'd failed. I do wonder if sometimes I'm just trying too hard.

When the body finally gives way

It's only through long term reflection I'm able to process these circumstances. It will give me strength to improve. I can now see clearly where I've not pushed enough, and equally where I've tried too hard. It's with joy and relief I can move forward in the hardest of life lessons to my next chapter:

"Without the sour, there ain't no sweet..."

As always huge thanks to Salomon, Suunto and Mountain Fuel for their ongoing support in my adventures.

An ode to the seasons

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Borne of the summer, I'm inextricably drawn to the fairer months. The sun feeds my soul and the light lifts my mood. It's these times I find motivation to get outdoors and run is effortless. There is no question I will find joy and comfort in exploring my natural playground. Satisfaction is guaranteed in this paradise of picture postcard blue skies and greenery.

The caveat to this is my inherent negativity towards the other seasons. I fear the impending arrival of the dark nights drawing in. Our damp British climate bringing weeks of dank and wet days to my doorstep. Rain a seemingly constant stream of drizzle and darkness lasting what feels never ending.
Yet I often harp on about a love of nature and all it brings. It's in recent times, maybe through a new found maturity, I find myself contemplating the seasons and all they can offer. Rejuvenation, a fresh start, a cleansing of the landscape. Everything in nature has purpose and I feel I need to embrace what joys it can bring to not just my running, but life in general... as a proud Father, it's the unbridled pleasure seen in my children who naturally embrace the seasons that instructs and teaches me. My daughter Ava Mai, as an avid fan of fairies (in particular Tinkerbell) is able to inspire me to contemplate the positives of the changes in nature. Ava frequently asks me which season is my favourite...... 

Spring

'Silvermist' The Water Fairy - 'Have you ever wondered how nature gets its glow?....'

Natural drew, wet soggy feet and the start of longer days.  Long winter months peel back to give way to new life, I smell the first signs of the warmth, spring and flowers. It's not just a steady arrival though, but an explosion of new fauna. Flashes of rain reinvigorate the landscape with a cacophony of colours that dazzle the eyes. As I run through the trails of fresh woodland, beds of natural bluebells break the ever impressive greenery. Streams flow in fast, dramatic torrents, tearing their way through the line of least resistance. Despite the incessant rain, a warmth often tries to penetrate, giving promise for the summer ahead. The evenings slowly creeping back to allow running to continue late on without being encumbered with head torches. The joy of drying trails giving a sure footedness on roots and rocks. For all the rain and inclement weather of Spring it brings the promise of summer.  The start of the running season true....

Summer

'Iridessa' - she looks to the bright side of things but is a natural worrier, yet she's a glow of sunshine.

Minimal running in it's prime, equipment stripped back to the bare essentials - running shorts, trainers and at the most a bottle of water.   For me, a run in the heat is passion personified, enjoying the dance over the roots of the trees, stones on the floor, dodging and ducking under the tree branches and the newly grown brambles sprouting through onto the paths. An awesome experience that I wait year round to savour every second. Sweat running down my body, a tangible product of the effort, breathing hard, feeling every breath, enjoying every moment.  The race season in full swing, its time to test the winter training, pushing the leg speed and using the strength of every muscle in my legs. A season of achievements waiting to be seized. Exhilarating experiences drawn from long days in the mountains. 

Seeking out natural springs to leapfrog across the wilderness, using the natural sustenance of the land. It's a time I'm at most peace, the world a cheerier and brighter place. Inspired to run for hours, not measuring distance, but travelling to the beat of my heart, letting myself navigate wherever I please. Endless days of play to saviour. The only issue the impending end that draws ever nearer with every passing day.

Autumn

'Fawn' - A rough and tumble tomboy; she loves animals and has a benison as a tree house

My favourite season, summer draws to its natural conclusion, but warm days sporadically make a welcome appearance. Many a times we've walked to the local reservoir to collect not only pine cones but also holly and pine needles, ready for winter.  The sky takes on a bluer quality.  A feeling of fatigue often lingering in the legs through a summer of racing at full effort.  A time to recover, or maybe a last late race to seal off the season before winter sets in true to form. Trees turn golden yellow, dropping a soft bed of golden leaves onto the trail, creating a carpet that's a pleasure to pad along during long runs. The crispness of the leaves as the foot touches the ground one of the best sounds.  The views in this period are enhanced with the colours and breathing in the crisp, cold air.

Winter

'Peri-Winkle' - A frost talent fairy 

Winter arrives and so does the short days and longer nights, ....my running is restricted. Running later on the trails becomes a hazardous pastime if travelling alone. Routes have to be considered based on the prevailing conditions. Too windy, wet or cold and I stick to lower ground, compromising the happiness sought in gaining elevation. The constant disappointment in the weather and the ever churning trails bombarded by permanently damp conditions depress me. Then a change. The cold dips low and snow falls. The land is transformed in an endless white carpet. Even hard surfaces become soft and forgiving underfoot. Exploring even the most familiar trails is exciting, discovering a Narnia like environment. Icicles hang from tree branches precariously like glass daggers. Descents are pure primal fun, encouraging childlike play when glissading down the mountains. Yes even this darkest and most depressing of seasons can be refreshing and rewarding, with its own unique magic.

 

My message, be less like me and embrace all the seasons for their merits, much like a child who hasn't yet adopted our cynicism of the World. Each has its own individual joys, even with the compromise in light and conditions. Running is an all weather pursuit. Sometimes it's just a little easier than others. Of course there's no such thing as bad weather, just the wrong kit

Thanks to Salomon, Suunto and mountainfuel.co.uk (sports nutrition) for the support - and most importantly helping me with the right kit.

Hardmoors 110 - When the wheel came off

Preamble -

It seems a little arrogant to expect everything to always go to plan. We can prepare, we can train, we can anticipate, but over a 100+ miles to expect all the pieces to perfectly fall into place is a little naive and I really should know better...

The Hardmoors 110 was an obvious race choice for me, with a reasonable locality and the lucrative UTMB points I seem to have been chasing forever now. After a long winter of training but no racing I certainly felt rested and even restless in some respects. I'd been plagued with 6 months’ worth of achilles tendonitis and sciatic issues, which fortunately I'd been able to get on top of with some last minute acupuncture sessions. The only downside is I'd maybe not quite nailed the training I was hoping for coming into this year’s big races. I was looking for some big mileage weeks and lots of vertical days in the hills. Luckily, despite my hampering injuries, I was able to get some quality sessions in on a local gem of a route called the Kinder Dozen. It's essentially 12 ascents from varying directions of the Kinder 'mastiff'. Over about 20 odd miles it has over 10,000ft of ascent on seriously rugged terrain meaning great opportunities for strength and endurance benefits. Despite this I would have felt better prepared combining this with some long outright 'running' days on faster terrain. Still I'd take what I'd got and approached the race with a positive mind-set ready to face the challenges ahead.

If I'm perfectly honest, I felt quite confident going into this race of achieving a good result. Looking at previous times I believed a podium or better could be a likely outcome if things went to plan. This may sound arrogant, but it's not meant to, rather it’s my personal ambition and drive to achieve for self-fulfilment. The caveat being this brings a self-imposed pressure that can be a burden if you allow it. Still I was determined to get out there and enjoy the route - not least because I hadn't reccied an inch of the course, so it would be a voyage of discovery throughout. One of the greatest joys I have in these long days out is seeing fantastic new places, indeed this is one of the reasons I started out in this sport some 4 years ago.

The Race -

The race is 110 miles in length with about 18,000ft of ascent gain. The route starts at Filey Brigg, running up the coast to Saltburn (53 miles), before heading inland over the magnificent North Yorks countryside taking in Roseberry Topping and the 3 Sisters before finishing in Helmsley. My plan was simple, go out at a manageable pace so I'd have plenty in the tank for the second half and through the night fell.

Hanging out with Dennis Potton (the peoples hero!)

After getting all of zero hours sleep, I got out of bed at just gone 6am keen to get kitted up and ready for the start. Emma and the kids soon followed and after porridge with chia seeds for brekky we headed out to Filey Brigg. Out on the Brigg (an impressive outcrop on the coastline) it was cool but with clear skies and a strong rising sun it promised to be fair weather through the day. This was a blessing considering the snow we'd just had in the days running up to the event. It was great to have the opportunity to bump into some Twitter friends who I hadn't met in person before - Kate, Joe, Dennis, Nigel and some others through the day. I've said it before but need to reiterate what a fantastic community our sport has.

The start with Ste Lord to my right

At a slightly late 8:20am and after Jon Steele's comedy briefing the race finally got underway. A guy called Paul Nelson flew off at the front with a young lad who was doing the relay. I was happy to settle in the next group running what felt an easy pace, with Ste Lord (won the Hardmoors 55 earlier this yr) and Jason Millward (a promising ultra runner being coached by Jayson Cavill). We chatted amiably about the day ahead and I remarked on the joys of racing on a coastline for the first time. The views over the cliffside down to the ocean were breathtaking. The sea rolled gently in to the beaches as the sun slowly warmed the frigid morning air. The coastal paths were basically rutted fields that were now dried and well trodden. Meaning it was a little awkward underfoot as every foot step meant your ankles were landing at a different angle. I can't say this bothered me at that stage though as my usual trail and fell runs are similarly non-uniform in their footing. However I was acutely aware that this may take its toll over the next 50 or so miles. About 10-15 minutes in I found myself naturally bridging the gap to Paul Nelson and the relay runner, but not quite catching, I was more than content to be patient in that respect. However this meant I'd moved ahead of Ste and Jason, which wasn't really my intention so early on. As the coastal path dropped into some woodland I found myself isolated for a short while. It was then I realised how problematic it may be to navigate for 110 miles without having reccied an inch of the course. The woodland trail meandered, with off shoots threatening to veer me off route at every corner and risk me getting lost at such an early juncture. I climbed the first steep steps of the day up onto a road in what I assumed to be Osgodby and hopefully the first aid station. Unfortunately it was nowhere to be seen, so after meandering up the road I stood and waited for those behind to catch up so I could ask directions. I didn’t let this rankle me as I was feeling pretty great and looking forward to the adventures ahead. What it did though was highlight to me the potential pitfalls of not learning a route prior to racing on it.

So it was onwards to Cayton Bay at about 8 miles. Here I ascended a steep grassy climb to a marshal who was checking people had not short-cutted along an easier and presumably shorter line. No sooner had I ‘summited’, the marshal directed me straight back down some steep steps that took me below the cliffsides. The land below was super slick in places which made me question my shoe choice of Salomon Sense Ultras, whereas I had some Salomon Soft Grounds on standby with my crew so I had options should it become an issue.

Happy running in the sunshine

I hit the Holbeck Hill aid station and saw that my wife, kids and parents were there waiting to cheer me on. This was a great lift and as I paused momentarily to grab a fresh soft bottle with Tailwind in, both Ste and Jason caught up and ran straight through. I followed in earnest and got back into the group. With Paul Nelson still running off unseen in the distance, it seemed a sound tactic to run along with these 2 in the chasing group. Although it’s fair to say the pace was still nice and easy, just ticking off the miles around 8min/miles I’d guess. My plan was falling nicely into place, I was nailing a fairly conservative start, which those that know me are well aware I’m pretty poor at that level of discipline.

Over the next few miles the scenery remained largely unchanged but I got the opportunity to have a nice chat with some of my fellow competitors. This is something I always try to get engage in, afterall running for around 20 hours in isolation can prove to be a pretty lonely experience. Whereas a bit of company can help the hours pass much quicker, and I’m a firm believer that sharing in the suffering can make it seem much easier and even a little trivial under the circumstances. As we went along our little group grew as some caught us from behind. There was maybe 6 or 7 of us now in this chasing group. Added to the group were Neil Ridsdale (I think the course record holder?), Kevin Perry and Jamie Lawler, amongst others. We happily pushed along together on the cliff tops moving into Scarborough. I had a great chat about ultras with a guy called Adam, although his full name eludes me, I hope he finished though!

Running through Scarborough itself was a fantastic experience, bringing back memories of my youth and my skateboarding days where I’d while away the days with friends leaping down stairs etc. The architecture around the old Spa and the comedy bling of the centre with the flashy amusements all served to add to the typical British seafront character. The seafront was also beneficial on the crew front with my family leap frogging along in the car to cheer as I passed. After a good 3 – 4 mile section of road it was nice to escape the town though and get back onto the cliff top paths. I found I was climbing easily and actually slowing to allow the group to catch up. I was clearly enjoying the company and in no particular rush to really start racing for some time.

After what seemed a long and fairly uneventful 22 miles, past Crookness and towards the aid at Ravenscar, I saw a familiar figure appear up ahead on the grassy trail. My wife, Emma had run out to meet me for a short distance to the next aid. As always this was a huge lift, and having the opportunity to share my ‘sport’ with my family is amazing. To run alongside Emma and chat about my experience so far was great to get myself into the zone and even a little pumped. We climbed up the road into Ravenscar and saw Paul (the leader) coming down from the aid, which in this instance was an out and back. This also got me fired up so I entered into the melee of the village hall with the intention of moving on quickly. I checked in with the marshals, grabbed another fresh Tailwind and immediately left the aid. I’m not one to waste time in aid stations, particularly so early in a race. Just an extra minute or two can add up over a race with 10 or more aids over its duration.

On leaving the aid I dropped back down the through village, giving me the opportunity to see how close some of the other runners were behind. I think this unintentionally upped my pace a bit being conscious of how close together the front runners still were. Neil Ridsdale latched onto the back of me and even went in front to push hard down a long descent. I dropped in behind him and enjoyed opening the legs after what felt like a long period of time running at a steady trot. As it levelled out we ran together for a while, but after a short climb I looked back and Neil had vanished. I don’t know whether he went for a comfort break or just dropped right off the pace, but it left me to press on by myself back in second. I then proceeded to get lost again, but a kindly walker directed me back onto the Cleveland Way route. I really enjoyed parts of this section, which constantly changed elevation on steep steps. I’d neglected to train specifically on steps, but found my hill training kept me in good stead. I seem to remember that Jason caught me along this section but we separated before the village of Robin Hoods Bay.

As I dropped into Robin Hoods Bay I bumped into Paul Burgum running the Hardmoors 160 (a sister race running at the same time). We said our hellos, I congratulated him on his gargantuan efforts and moved on. I soon bumped in Paul Nelson (still the leader) and we ran up the steep ascent through the town together. As we hit the aid I took a minute to refuel and Paul set off in front again.

Running through Robin Hoods Bay with Paul Nelson

I soon set off in pursuit and over the next couple of miles I was happy to shadow about 50 metres behind Paul along the rolling cliff top path. The effort felt manageable and I was confident that Paul was slowly running out of steam after his aggressive start. The Cleveland Way was packed with walkers along here so I found myself picking my around them and occasionally getting held up to pass on the narrow single track. Soon enough I caught Paul and overtook him to take the lead. I was pleased at about 30 odd miles in to be leading but felt it may be a bit early to push on so I kept the pace ‘easy breezy’. It was great to see the Abbey in Whitby and I really felt I was starting to eat into the route, particularly the seafront section – which in all honesty was wearing thin with me now. I ran across the car park to find the famous 199 steps down into the town, but under the advice of a member of the public I took the wrong route and descended a slope, which ran parallel to them. After about 200 metres downhill I realised my error and turned to begrudgingly climb back up the slope. I saw Paul some 100 metres up who’d followed me so I pointed him back up. I caught him back up and we got back onto the right route and ran down into the town together. Annoyingly at the bottom, I saw where the slope I’d originally descended joined the same road anyway. Still, I don’t like to think I’d have gained any advantage so pleased I’d rerouted the correct way. As we ran through the village Jason joined us and we formed a group of three leading the race. We ran past a couple of runners in the town, one of whom I only realised afterwards was John Kynaston. Shame as it would have been nice to say hi properly, he’s a great personality in the ultra-running community who I’ve been fortunate enough to meet at a couple of times at races.

Whitby Abbey

We ran through the Whalebone Arch in Whitby and along the long seafront towards Sandsend. It was on this stretch that Paul seemingly blew up. He said he was okay just suffering a bit so me and Jason pushed on.

And so it would be, me and Jason running together for some time after that. It was really nice to talk training, races and other topics. You can meet some lifelong friends during ultras after sharing such a personal adventure, and it's good to say Jason’s a top bloke who I expect to go well at UTMB this year. Incidentally Jason also ran the White Rose Ultra 100 last year the same as me but we didn't get to meet there. To his credit he’d done some great prep with a new coach and was running really strong.

After seeing Shelli Gordon on route to winning the 160 in a dominant fashion, we wished her well and ran on along an annoying soft sandy section. This reminded me why I’d never choose to run in the desert, such as the Marathon De Sables, not least because I think I’d be poor at multi-stage racing. We saw Ste Lord about 300 metres back as we crested the cliff tops having climbed back up.

Running into Sansend

The run through Sandsend (36 miles) was uneventful, although seeing my Dad cheering me on again was fantastic. As we hit up the aid station I grabbed a banana as I had the first signs of low energy. I’d been doing a Tailwind per hour but think I should maybe have upped the intake as I’d probably been sweating with the warm day.

Fuelling with a banana as I left Sandsend Aid

After a short detour round some eroded headland we descended into a steep rocky gulley towards Runswick Bay. I remembered from the race instructions that this was the place where runners may be held due to the tide so I was pleased to see the beach was fully exposed still allowing us to pass. Unfortunately the narrow gulley was backed up with people traffic meaning me and Jason had to climb down the rocks at the side and into the running water to access the beach. Once onto the beach it was pleasantly packed and for a few hundred metres a pleasure to run on with very low impact on the joints.

As we hit Runswick village, as usual we were faced with a steep incline. Jason took the opportunity to take a comfort break in a public loo so I told him I’d wait up by the aid station. Some steep switchbacks and I hit the aid where my family were waiting. I took a second to sit on the back of our Jeep and take on some fuel although I seemed to be struggling a little to eat. I waited all of about five minutes for Jason to arrive, when Jamie came running in behind looking pretty good. We took this as a kick up the butt as we might have must have eased off the pace some for him to catch us. We pushed on towards the last seafront aid, which galvanised my enthusiasm as after 41 miles I was tired of the cliff top paths and steps. I live and train in the hills and wanted to get back to my natural habitat.

Runswick Checkpoint and happy to see the Garratt family

Saltburn came round soon enough at 53 miles, and I happily ran all that section with Jason, confirming our team up would last a little longer. This aid proved to be a bit more frenetic, with me treating it as an opportunity to swap into Salomon Slab Ultra Soft Grounds ready for the expected muddy conditions. Due to this delay 3 other runners came into the aid while I got ready. Ste Lord, literally arrived and left immediately, yet due to the Runswick Bay arrangements, Jason was more than adamant he wanted to wait for me. The other two runners were Kevin and Jamie (from the earlier group). As we left we were told we could take a series of steps or a long steadier road. We elected for the steps, only to get to the top and see Kevin and Jamie appear from up the road way, which was clearly shorter! Oh well, we turned into a park and ran together for about half a mile. Someway into the park Kevin needed to stop and sort his shoes, so with Jamie waiting we dropped them and moved on back in joint second place.

The next section oddly ran through a housing estate before eventually going back offroad and into some horrendously muddy woodland. It was here that I started to admit to myself I was due a serious low patch. I didn’t even want to drink the Tailwind, which had worked so well during the White Rose where I’d secured first male. Food was out of the question as my stomach refused to take anything in. With my energy rapidly dipping I knew I was in trouble, yet even when I insisted Jason move on by himself he refused to break the ties saying he needed to move steady as well.

It might be pertinent to mention 4 weeks prior to this race I‘d done a 2 week exclusion diet, entirely removing carbs and glycogen from my diet. I was widely questioned regarding this decision so close to a race. However, I wrongly assumed that two weeks back on carbs ad sugars I’d be able to revert my body back to normal. If I’m honest with myself, I’d had a lot of stomach ache and strange movements. The reason for the diet was to highlight any health issues from carb intolerance, which of itself was successful as it relieved some problems I’ve had long term. So in that respect I see this as a huge step forward in the long game as regards my performance, clearly at the cost of my short term carb tolerance during this race by causing some gastric issues.

The view of the surrounding countryside from Roseberry Topping

We got onto some more open tracks that steadily climbed up through some felled woodland. It was along here that while Jason was clearly suffering he stopped at the side of the trail to eject the contents of his stomach. We repeated the scenario where I insisted on waiting while he got himself together. Yet all of a sudden he was done and we ran on. I could tell something was different, Jason was moving better and looked fresh. Sure enough very shortly he was just dropping me on the climbs as I only felt weaker with every step. As Jason disappeared into the horizon, I took a leaf out of his book, stepped to the side of the trail, where my stomach didn’t need much prompting to project its entire contents out into the dirt. Unfortuantely I didn’t quite get the same rejuvenation that Jason had experienced and only felt weaker. Every step was an effort, every turn or summit looked insurmountable and the remaining 50 something miles of this race seemed an impossible destination I’d never reach. Staring down the eyes of my first DNF filled me with dread. This is what 100 milers are about though, overcoming what might feel like preposterous odds. When finishing looks unattainable, it’s the simple act of reassessing our goals and just taking another step. It’s almost becoming a cliché in the ultra world, but the act of accepting our situation and taking that next step serves to bolster our resolve and conviction to reach the finish line. Life is about achieving goals, whatever they might be. My goal with this race may have been a little too position orientated, which on paper looked a likely outcome. The reality is what looks good on paper doesn’t always go to plan. This was one of those moments, and I had a similar epithany at the Lakeland 50 in 2014. Suddenly any time or positional goals went out the window and it becomes an act of survivial. The finish line was the only motivator now – and you could be sure unless they pulled me from the race or I died, I was going to get there... With the pressure of racing temporarily lifted I felt a little better straight away, certainly from a mental aspect the positivity gave me a real boost.

The magnificent Roseberry Topping

My good mood was aided by the sight of Roseberry Topping. A beautiful 'little' geographical feature that rises straight out of the ground in isolation. It was to be a short out and back section with a descent to its base, a quick run to the summit and back up to where I started, before then continuing on the Cleveland Way. Although a random detour, it made perfect sense in the aesthetic sense of ticking of this fantastic little peak. It was reminiscent of a mini-mountain that just begged to be climbed. I cruised down the hill excited to trot up to the summit to take in the views. Unfortunately my low energy meant I had to fast hike the switch back ascent rather than what I'd have preferred. Still it was a blessing I was still moving and even enjoying myself. On the ascent I initially saw Jason coming down and we passed pleasantries which was nice. Then Emma and Fin (a family friend) appeared. They finished the ascent with me, where I took a seat to try and put some calories in. I remarked that my race was seemingly over but I was determined to finish. My crew kept me positive and I moved on. As I left the summit in to retrace my steps I saw Kevin and Jamie reaching the top. I knew they wouldn't be too far behind now so I cracked on towards Kildale where I'd be picking up a pacer.

Ascending Roseberry and laughing at my total lack of energy

It was at the top of the climb back onto the Cleveland Way that Kevin and Jamie caught me. I was able to tag on the back and follow them for a mile or so, but the nausea refused to abate. As we descended off the tops down towards a forest they started to gap me but I just couldn't muster any real concern at that point. It was only when we started to climb again that I could see Jamie was dropping off the pace a little. Still as we ran deeper into the forest they both disappeared which made me a little concerned about navigation here as it could get tricky in places.

Just when I was starting to feel sorry for myself and I could shake off my ill mood - I saw Mark Richardson ahead. I couldn't have seen anything better at that moment to raise my spirits! Mark had come out to pace me, and although I expected to see him at Kildale, he's run a bit further out to meet me. I couldn't tell him soon enough what trouble I was in, but in true quality pacer fashion he allayed my fears and we cracked on. It really was like a second wind to be running with a friend and I was ready to get some decent miles under my belt.

Mark and me #selfies

We eventually ran down a tarmac road that took us into Kildale and eventually into the hall at 68 miles. I had a cup of tea and sat down while I sorted my kit out. Kevin and Jamie were both there too, and surprisingly Ste as well. I guess we all ride out our highs and lows at various points. As I was getting cold I put on my Salomon Slab light jacket here. I could see Mark was keen to get me moving again so I left my tea and we got back out on the road.

Leaving Kildale with Kevin and Jamie in pursuit

What followed was a steady climb on the road for about 2 or 3 miles. We were swapping places with Kevin and Jamie all the way up here, who were seemingly splitting up now having run a long way together. On the way up to the moors it was Jamie who eventually broke first and quickly disappeared behind us. But it was Kevin who came past looking strong as we hit the moorland. The steady climbing continued, which was all highly runnable, but I was really struggling in places to keep any sort of cadence up. I took the occasional sip of Tail Wind but even that was struggling to stay down.

Due to our diminished pace, I started to get really cold up here and I was keen to self clip at Blowarth crossing (75 miles) and start descending. Once we'd passed through Mark explained the next section to me as the steep rocky ascents over the Three Sisters, as they are lovingly known. I was excited for this part too, just to change up the muscle recruitment with some more fast hiking. Mark left me on here in the night, but the trail was fairly easy to follow along here. I felt painfully slow over the climbs - I need to do the Hardmoors 55 one day, as these 3 climbs along with Roseberry Topping are begging to be run. Still I was accepting to my situation and tried in vain to push the pace up the technical ascents.

I was on the third climb, the effort required after 80 odd miles without food was crushing. I was feeling supremely sorry for my plight. I was only getting colder with the bitter night air penetrating through to my bones. It was then I did something inextricable and against my better nature; I stopped. Not only that I stopped and first sat, then laid down on a rock. I couldn't then, and on reflection now, I don't quite know why I did it, other than to say it just felt the right thing to do. So there I was 80 miles in a race, laid down with my eyes closed wondering if I'd ever bother to get back up. At least I was on the route so someone would find me eventually....

Opening my eyes I was greeted with a view that literally took my breath away. I've seen the stars before, I've even seen the sky when there looks to be thousands of stars when light pollution is minimal. But what I saw here was something entirely different, what I could only describe as millions of stars, almost too many crammed into every millimetre of the panoramic night sky that lay before me. To say I felt fortunate to be alive and experiencing this moment would be like selling the moment your children are born as just an okay experience. I'm sure the pain and suffering to get to this place amplified my emotions, but that doesn't take away from the memory I'll hold from that moment. It added perspective to the race aspirations that had unfortunately slipped through my fingers. I sat up and scanned the horizon, I could see at least two head torches in pursuit. Happy with my five minutes of peace, I got up and decided I better get down to the small matter of tackling the last 30 miles.

I didn't hang around at Lord Stones, I was back in race mode, or rather damage limitation. So it was back to climbing up through the woods. I got to the Scarth Moor self clip (at a tv tower) but couldn't find the clip. Someone was rapidly gaining on me here so I was annoyed to be losing time. Eventually I found the clip in some deep grass a few metres from the clip point?? So clipped up and hooked it back on the fence where it was meant to be. I blasted on actually feeling a bit of energy, probably due to the adrenaline of being chased more than anything.

I hit the village of Osmotherley in pretty good shape and set off down the long hill to find the village hall. Unfortunately I couldn't locate it and was surprised there were no signs to signify its location. After running about a quarter of a mile all the way back up I checked the route description, only to realise the aid was another mile or so out of the village! To say I was destroyed yet again by this realisation is probably an understatement, but still got to keep things into perspective, I hadn't been caught yet.

As I got back on route and left the village I was starting to enjoy the cat and mouse of racing again. 100 milers really are just wars of attrition, trying to muster those last dregs of energy and stay efficient where you can. Getting lost yet again in a field of all places! I could see head torches catching along the trails. And as I dropped down through a wood on some nice smooth trail, Paul Nelson came barrelling past me. It actually took me by surprise, his recovery from a fast start was amazing, and I really didn't have an answer at that point. This put me down in 5th, but with two chasing lights about 200 metres back, I wasn't going to let anyone else past now. A steady climb up to Square Corner and the next aid, I took a minute to get some warm clothes on. The Salomon GTX Shell active jacket would be plenty to hold my core warm. I even donned some Salomon Bonatti WP pants to keep my legs cosy. The temperatures were dropping well into minus figures and I needed to look after myself. What followed was another long climb, which must have gone on for a couple of miles before a gentle descent that really got me running well again. I was keen to build a buffer to the two head torches behind and hold my placing.

The next drama came at 97 miles at High Paradise Farm where the third and last self clip was located. I ran the length of the farm, but yet again I couldn't find it! After about 10 minutes wasted I took the decision to leave and explain to the organisers I'd genuinely tried to find it. (It turned out some other runners had the same issue).

Charging 'hard' near the end

The final section was a matter of survival, moving 'fast' where I could and trying to sneak in the last bits of energy when my stomach allowed. The last big climb over Sutton Bank held it's own joy in the form of a sunrise. Always renewed by the sight of the sun, I used it to push the last few miles till I hit Dialstone Farm. Mark was again waiting for me here to bring me home. Despite the lift, he broke my spirits a little by informing me it was 9 miles to go and not the 8 I thought. You'd think a mile wouldn't matter after the distance I'd covered but every step was an effort now. That said, the final few miles rolled by much easier with Mark at my side. He chatted away amiably, kindly distracting me from the suffering.

More pacer Selfies as we turn the last bend in Helmsley

The highlight of this last section was an early morning view of Rievaulx Abbey surrounded by mist. And then a sign stating Helmsley and the finish were a meagre 2.25 miles away. Can't help but make reference points in running, and this exact distance is a lap of Morehall Reservoir where I live. Easy right? Well sort of, but it was enough to get me pumped to finish this thing.

My face on seeing the kids at the finish

A couple more little climbs and we were rolling down the grassy descent into Helmsley. I couldn't help but smile at reaching this place, I reflected on my journey and how much I'd 'enjoyed' it. As we ran up the gentle incline towards Helmsley Sports I saw Emma and the kids cheering us on. I stopped momentarily to thank Mark and fist pump to celebrate. It was into the finish to check in with a total time of 22:51 and 5th place.

  

Reflection

It's always great to plan and aspire to certain goals, the danger is when we fall short. Even now a week later I'm grateful for the experience and the learning to be had, but I'm still slightly rankled by how things unfolded. I'd gone into the race hoping for at least a podium and to finish in sub 21 hours. Maybe if things went really well to break 20 hours. From my time and the relative distance and elevation at White Rose Ultra, I was certainly capable of such a result, but alas things just didn't pan out like that for me. Still I've got to take from the experience of dragging myself round a tough course having experienced such lows.

On a positive note, I've got my UTMB points now so I'm good to enter that next year all being well. I've also had some great strengthening and conditioning in the run up to my A race at Lakeland 100. Any other year, my time would have been podium or better, so in retrospect I suppose I didn't perform too badly, just a missed opportunity. Maybe it'll be one I have to revisit to tick the box.

Most of all I'm just grateful to have the health to be able to run these events, we're all fortunate to be able to move in the mountains and enjoy these outdoor spaces.

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