Race To The Stones – 50K

‘Under no circumstances,’ I stipulated to Vince, as we passed kilometre marker 94, ‘tell me that we’ve only got a Parkrun to go.’

We were on the last section of the Ridgeway, an ancient chalky trail path that runs from Wiltshire to Buckinghamshire for eighty-seven miles, although once upon a time, it had been more than twice as long. I asked Vince why a race hadn’t been created that did the full length, and he posited that it wasn’t technical enough for the hardcore ultra runners. 

It was true. Even though I was really flagging now, the track overall had been very pleasant, and very runnable for a stronger runner than me. Underfoot the path was clear and generally wide enough to move easily. The hills were not too steep, although I walked at every sniff of an incline, knowing that I needed to conserve my energy to handle those extra miles. The views were magnificent, especially on this warm sunny day, with the rolling farmlands, hills and remarkably little civilisation.

I had struck it lucky with the weather. When Vince had run the full 100K version two years ago, the temperature was in the very late twenties. Last year, there had been torrential rain. But this year, for mid-July, it was pretty perfect, quite warm but not too humid, with just the lightest of breezes. 

The race runs from the Saturday to the Sunday. Some people opt for a continuous 100K run through, which might mean running through the night. Vince’s friend Karen had taken this on, and he’d buddied her on those last dark kilometres on Saturday night/ Sunday morning. Other people split their 100K over the two days with a sleep in between. And some, like me, pick one of the days and just plump for a ‘mere’ 50K, so that 94K marker actually meant 44 for me.

If you think about it, 50K is only just dipping a toe into ultra land, just eight kilometres over the marathon distance but even so, when I struggle to complete a marathon, tagging those extra five miles on to the end is bound to hurt. And it did, but not as much as I thought it would.

I had had a smorgasbord of emotions in these last couple of weeks ranging from ‘I am going to die out there’ to ‘I will never want to run another step’ and eventually to ‘I think I might enjoy this’. I don’t think it’s easy living with a runner when they’re tapering for something they have never done before. I kept trying to repeat the ‘I have done the training’ mantra, and as the days ticked over and we got in the car for our room-above-a-pub in Berkshire, I started to believe it.

It didn’t have a bath, apparently none of the rooms had baths and Alex the manager was apologetic but perplexed by the lady I spoke to on the phone a couple of days before. It was nice enough though, and handy for our early dart at five the next morning.

Forcing some Oats So Simple down my gullet at four in the morning isn’t a simple task. I hoped, though, that somewhere in that simple sawdust was a little bit of a glycogen top up after my pasta dinner the night before. I followed it up with a banana and coffee and we headed to Base Camp. For some reason, at that hour, the pigeons and doves seem to enjoy hanging out on the road tarmac en masse. It felt like they were all having a game of chicken to see who would fly off last and still survive the rumble of the motor car. Complete nutcases. We also spied a deer darting off quickly into the hedges as we drove up, evidently not wanting to play the pigeons’ game.

A little dew on the grass, and a pleasantly cool morning on this big field seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Anne chucked me out of the car and headed back to resume her sleep while I wondered around the gentle festival atmosphere of campers brushing their teeth in sink troughs. Most of these were the two-dayers and I heard exclamations of pain as they tried to stretch themselves back into runners. I’m not sure I would have camped in between two days of hard work, but I guess there is the camaraderie.

The Start gantry filled up just before six with the animated compere calling all the ready participants to the line. It opened at six, but so long as you rolled across the line by seven, it was fine. A good portion though were raring to go on the dot, including me, having had my final portaloo wee for good luck, and we set off as the sun began to rise in the sky. 

How do you get your head around completing 50K? 

Try speaking to a fellow runner who is doing it for the second time in two days. Ollie was a young chap who, when we first began to chat, hadn’t given the memo to his legs that they were going all over again. He was in the army but as a musician, and I hoped this would mean that he’d never see action. After around three miles or so, the message started to get through, and his legs started to loosen up, although they didn’t stop grumbling. It was amazing to chat to people like him, as a reminder of what we humans are capable of.

Another way is to break it down. There are three pitstops en route in each 50K section, between nine and fourteen kilometres apart. That helped me a great deal. Knowing that a wild wee wasn’t necessary, as the next stop wasn’t too far away. Plus, I could fill up my water bottles and stock up on gels, so I didn’t need to carry too much. You’re expected to carry your own water in these kinds of races as in fell runs, and not just take a glug out of one of thousands of single-use plastic bottles. I like that. 

After the grass of the Base Camp farm, we got onto the Ridgeway almost immediately and headed east towards Wiltshire. This is a trail that has been used for 5000 years or more and I did have a few moments of reverie, as I got into a steady rhythm, thinking about what those old travellers would have thought of our merry band of runners, of all shapes and ages, loping or shuffling along its timeless path, with no care other than to reach the next stop, and maybe have a cup of tea and a sandwich while they apply a new blister plaster.

I didn’t risk a sandwich at Liddington, the middle stop, and kept to my gels, chews and salt tablets, although I did snaffle a packet of salted crisps. I think, if I ever ventured to do anything longer, I would practise with more real food as by the last few miles my stomach had had enough of the sweet stuff. Still, I was pleased overall with my energy levels which kept fairly level throughout, so those chews and gels were administered at timely intervals. It wasn’t quite an exact science, but I ate something, one or the other, every two miles or so, and the salt tablets were crunched on every three or four miles. 

Having done a few long runs now, in training and as a race, I’ve come to appreciate just how important nutrition is for me. It obviously makes a difference during the run, but also afterwards. Many a time I’ve finished a run, only to be wiped out with a headache that’s floored me for the rest of the day, and I really notice the difference when I’ve eaten regularly. There is a balance though, as if I have too much too soon, my stomach begins to revolt, and I feel sick. 

This race yesterday reassured me that I’m getting better at that balance, certainly for the first twenty-five miles or so. After that, my energy levels were suddenly non-existent, as if my body, realising that I wasn’t going to stop at 26.2, decided to down tools and have a union meeting to decide if this kind of behaviour was in the contract.

By this time, luckily, I’d got Vince running with me. As fellow bloggers we’d been reading each other’s output for a while now and it was Vince’s exploits on this race in previous years that put the whole idea into my head. We’d never met before I jogged into the village of Ogbourne St George, at just after the twenty-mile mark. Anne was also there, just to check up on me and give me any kit swaps I needed. We looked down the road as a sprightly fellow with white hair came towards us. He was proudly sporting a Race To The Stones 100K black tee shirt so I assumed we had our man. 

‘My wife thought it was a strange thing to do, to offer to run with a complete stranger,’ he’d said but didn’t feel strange to me. I just felt grateful that I wouldn’t be alone for that final no-man’s land of beyond my limits. The route had come down off the Ridgeway to reach the village, and now invariably we needed to do a bit of climbing back up. Nothing that I wouldn’t be able to manage if I was setting out for a fresh run, but it was a little on the tough side today. Chatting to Vince and feeling inspired that this wiry sixty-nine-year-old could think nothing of running 30K one day with Karen, and then 17K with me the next day, I kept going in some form or another, even though it was getting physically and mentally harder, and when we hit 95K, he just looked at me and silently zipped his mouth up.

The final torment was that we could hear the loudspeakers at the finishing line but had to go an extra kilometre sideways to kiss (metaphorically) the Avebury Stones and go around a cone back to the entrance of the farm where the Finish would be. It did mean that I got a picture of me with some of them in the background. 

By that time, I would have happily by-passed the Stones just to reach a chair to sit down on, but needs must, I guess, to clock those final kilometres. We eventually turned the corner, and I could see the gantry straight ahead of me, albeit several hundred metres ahead. One final spurt of effort, I thought, and the sooner I reached that line, the sooner I’d reach a chair, so I did put some welly into it, and nigh on sprinted down this road at (for me at that point) breakneck speed. Vince melted to the side to give me my moment. I could hear Anne shouting my name and lots of other people cheering, and the compere was ebullient about my final effort and huge grin, and I ended up going over the line with my arms aloft in relief and pride.

I genuinely thought that I’d hate parts of this run as I had done in previous marathons, but I really didn’t. Yes, I was desperate to finish by the end, but it had been a beautiful day and I felt so chuffed with myself for training well enough to enjoy it. I was so happy to meet and chat with Vince, who I’d felt I’d got to know from his weekly musings, and to be welcomed so warmly by his wife Libby when we dropped him off later. They live in a village boasting a beautiful thirteenth century tithe barn, so we had an extra treat to see that.

My legs today are feeling tired, my quads are starting to seize up a little, but I can go up and down the stairs alright which is a great sign that I’m recovering well. As an older, slower runner, the wins aren’t going to be on the podium for me, but in seeing how well I complete something and then recover after. I’ll count this as a most excellent win.