50 miles

 

With 25k steps already in my legs after our day in London and the accidental Airbnb adventure, I was sent off together with the other runners by the super-friendly race director Chris at nine sharp.

During the pre-race briefing, I had noticed a couple of Norwegian flags and a few Germans, but otherwise I seemed to be the only non-UK participant.

Having activated my satellite tracker, the first twenty kilometres were absolutely lovely, winding through broadleaf woodland on wonderfully runnable trails. Around me were stories of people who had finished both UTMB and Western States, making my own ultra résumé pale by comparison. Chatting with a guy who had done the race three times and who was carrying a large handheld GPS device, I seemed to have found the perfect partner for the approaching night. Unfortunately, the other guy we were running with started falling repeatedly – full Bergslagsleden style on perfectly flat ground – and we all started to get worried about him.

Twenty-eight kilometres into the race, our designated navigator, wearing a large yellow backpack with Ultimate Direction branding, led us across a graveyard and up to a church that looked suitably ghostly just after midnight. He clearly knew what he was doing and, in no time at all, we reached the first, and extraordinarily well-stocked, checkpoint. Indulging in watermelon, bananas, and oranges, I felt strong and ready to take on the night.

Running across fields of tall grass, the runner who had fallen earlier developed worsening back pain and eventually called his wife to pick him up at the next checkpoint, another 21 kilometres down the trail.

Passing the marathon mark in 5 hours and 22 minutes, I was starting to slip below my ideal pace and, with another thirty kilometres still to go until the third checkpoint, I began feeling unwell – a feeling that was only briefly interrupted when a badger suddenly jumped out of the bushes and collided with me.

While I have experienced nausea during races before, this was on a completely different level, seriously making me wonder how I would be able to continue.

By dawn, the big yellow moon had turned white as I stopped to photograph the thirteenth-century Fairstead Church, with its extensive use of old Roman bricks. Slipping into the Co-op in Coggeshall, I bought a milkshake and a sandwich, which temporarily made me feel better. Yet, passing field after field completely exposed to the blazing sunshine, the nausea soon returned, and I made the difficult decision to DNF just after my watch made the 75k beep. The decision itself immediately made me realize just how miserable I actually felt, making the final five kilometres to the third checkpoint and my drop bag absolutely awful.

Once I had saved the activity to Strava, I more or less collapsed outside the Shoulder of the Mutton. Fortunately, the race organiser's parents were driving supplies down to the finish in Harwich and, in a sudden stroke of luck, I was able to sleep for a while in their car before waking up right outside the Pier Hotel. 

While I am feeling incredibly disappointed with my performance, I am also grateful that I had the wisdom not to attempt the remaining 50 kilometres under the glaring sun for another ten hours. Together with Sofi, I walked over to the finish line to cheer on the runners still coming in, said goodbye to Chris one last time, and watched the high tide at nearby Dovercourt Beach.