Mad Max Runs

I tell you what, between trail running and my boy's sage teachings, who needs books to learn, really? That beautiful journey gave me far more than a longed-for victory, but a few beautiful reminders of just why I started challenging myself 'out there'. It's so very much more than running, and man alive, did I need that right now. Venn, Venn, at work again.  >>> There are times when you have no choice but to sit down in the deluge. Don’t stay too long or you’ll freeze. >>> When your inner fire starts to fizzle, sometimes there are people around who can rescue you, but more often you need to find a way to keep yourself warm despite the odds. On these occasions, order means nothing. Get yourself up, grab your things, and get moving. Never stop until you thaw. >>> Forgive yourself for the poor choices you’ve made. Celebrate yourself. Pat yourself on the back. Literally. Often. >>> Always stop and do the thing; see to yourself when you nee

Barbury Castle - Avebury   As I stepped away from the shelter at Barbury Castle, the wind made clear its mission to blast off the left side of my head and nick my poncho. Despite tucking the ends tightly beneath my vest, nature’s attack on the foil was equally deafening and agitating. I spent the entire crossing of the great field bent at a 90 degree angle with my head tipped right, to protect my face from the horizontal rain. The body position made it challenging, but not impossible, to search for the steep chalk descent I’d always found elusive. Fortunately, reflex and memory directed my feet, so when I finally paused to look up and get my bearings, I was nearly upon it. It was little surprise to find my penultimate descent a sludgy and slippery mess right the way down. As per, my chronic decision paralysis joined the party at the most inopportune moment, making it near impossible to determine which rut seemed safest while I was getting battered by the elements. That phantom diff

Foxhill – Barbury Castle   You’d think the weather was a bit pissed off that I’d caught it snoozing along the preceding stretch, because the minute I passed through the Foxhill junction, the sun promptly disappeared behind a cloak of clouds and the wind bid me a glorious afternoon. A friend had warned me that serious weather would be coming in near 5 pm, and despite it being a few hours away, it was patently clear Ma Nature had hurled that gauntlet like a javelin and the time for a comfortable onward journey had now concluded. Please return your tray tables and seats to an upright position and prepare for a bumpy landing. As I crossed the M4, I searched for a spot to pause and layer up again, deciding a slab of grassy verge would fit the bill. After a reasonably quick turnaround I tried to get up, which, considering the level of activity I’d managed so far, would seem to be simple. Ah, but no. I can only wonder what the man headed towards me was thinking as I delivered my best ov

Sparsholt Firs – Foxhill     Despite my determination to finally complete the route on this new day, I could only summon a trudge from my weary legs as I stepped from that cozy car into a brisk and foggy morning. As luck would have it, I hadn’t been walking for more than 10 minutes, when the terrain decided to tip its hat with a rowdy GOOD MORNING! HOW DO YOU DO?! REMEMBER ME?! I stopped cold at the sight of a mucky chalk pond that had consumed the crossroads. As I debated which part of Michael Rosen’s Bear Hunt antics I’d use to reach the other side, I started thinking about the next section of the trail, which I recalled from previous outings would be a lengthy, knee battering, chalk descent – and hard as a rock. Not today. Of course. Silly girl! I crossed The Marvellous Junction Eating Pond along the path of least resistance (read: trying not to get swallowed up) and minced my way along the left side of that now sludgy descent, with the ever-present fear of skiing down at the

Bury Down - Sparsholt Firs   Every ultra I’ve done contains a missing bit of the journey that somehow falls into the black hole of my memory, when the monotony takes over and I recall little more than just moving forward. I remember negotiating with pain seeping into my bones. Forging a forever imbalanced agreement that I’ll do A if you do B and we’ll agree to disagree, now shut up. But it never shuts up, it just gets louder. This was that lost segment, and during it, I remember that I sat down a lot, for a little bit, just to minimise the volume in my screaming feet. All through this second night, it was just me snaking along the endless rutted track between nameless, shapeless downs*, under a dark sky clotted with cloud and decorated with a stubborn sliver of moon, that vicious crosswind raging at the side of my head, starting to chew at my sanity. In retrospect, I don’t actually remember the rain but I know it did rain – I remember precisely that sensation of cold and wet goin

Streatley - Bury Down    ‘…What's the plan, and would you like some company?’ The text had largely come out of nowhere two weeks prior to the big event, and I grinned when I saw it. Despite my natural aversion to accepting help from anyone for just about anything, this was nowhere near an offer I’d be declining—it was from my friend, fellow runner, and previous R86 finisher, Hobs. We’d originally thought that he’d catch me up at some point early in the day on Easter Monday, but when my pace had aligned my arrival in Streatley with an easterly sun rather than the previous night’s pitch, this, like so many other plans, went out the window. We agreed I’d ping him later when I was getting ready to move again, as I’d be staying in my basecamp room for some time. I was so knackered that I didn’t bother to shower before settling in for a 2 hour nap, which was startlingly interrupted when a cleaner barged halfway in to me shouting ‘HELLO!? HELLO?! I’M SLEEPING!’ He slammed the door