All the feels.
When I stop and think back at the first crack I had at running
the R86, there were only 16 miles to go when I decided to stop. I was still
within the cutoff, but I was in uncharted territory and I was in pain and I was
lost in my head with worry about something I had no control over, nor could I
do anything about at that particular moment in time.
But pain is a passenger on any ultra, this is nothing new. Needless
to say there’s no limit to the amount of time I’ve spent lambasting myself
about that choice, but seeing as how you can’t go back unless you own a Tardis
or an amped up Delorean, I’ve tried to channel that regret as fuel.
The two years following that unfortunate moment were so
unlucky, with injury and pre-race illness doing their business at the most inopportune
of times. I suppose if my life weren’t so chaotic and I had more emotional spoons
at the ready I’d have pressed on and finished anyway. But it seems the cutlery
tray was long empty and the stars were never aligned to deliver that result no
matter how desperately I wanted them to be.
I’ve said on more than one occasion that the Ridgeway is
trying to kill me and I’m not even exaggerating. Along with those three failures
to finish I’ve also tripped over a whackamole stone buried in the trail during
the Ridgeway 40 and broke my finger, choosing to walk the 20 miles back to
Streatley because how else do you get out of the middle of nowhere fast? Seems I
found the answer to that last when I tried to do a 51 mile 51st birthday
run while carrying an ear infection and we all know how that turned out (three
months of endless illness, no thanks boss). That ended with a taxi rescue from
my seat in the rain beside the Church of St Botolph’s. As I healed, I lamented yet
another bad life choice but never truly believed it was over.
A training run last year found me tripping up again on a
different part of the trail, flying through the air to slam down onto my left
shoulder, which left intense pain and swelling like a Covid jab in my upper arm
for some 10 days. Just as it started to feel it was returning to normal, in
July I fell twice more on two separate occasions landing in two different ways,
and as such making sure I completely bollocked my shoulder. It’s been trashed
ever since, and I’ve only made it worse by all the packing and moving boxes
(and moving them back!!) of late. The rowing machine I’ve recently acquired has
helped but it’s going to take a fair bit longer to undo the damage – time which
I ain’t currently got, what with my plans and all.
But as I certainly do have practice taking on pain and carrying
it like a passenger, it’s never been much of an issue for the upcoming quest. I
know it will hurt but everything will hurt, right? Maybe that will take my mind
off my legs? Maybe there will come a point I decide I have too much crap in the
pack and I’m not going to sleep anymore so I’ll make a hidey hole and stash my
stuff for collecting later?
This time I’ll do what I want to do, when I want to do it,
in the way I want it done. So many variables and so much control over how this
will play out. (Mind, I give a hearty nod to Luck this time because I certainly
seem to have pissed it off lately. Truce?)
All said, I’ve never been more excited to return to the
Ridgeway, and hell, let’s call it My Ridgeway at this point. We have a hot date
and will dance together through a few dawns. I welcome the uncertainty and the
challenge and the battle and the darkness and even the pain.
Bring it on. Life is boundlessly, endlessly harder.
Anyway the point of all this is to share a bit more of my
why. Some who’ve read this far will know more of the history and those key milestones
along the way that are dead cert to make me both well up and roar, but I wanted
to spell it out with hopes that anyone following along the tracker will pump a
fist in the air and let up a little cheer when I make it through. I’ll feel
that, trust me.
They go about like this…
Exiting Grim’s Ditch
Last year, my R86 essentially ended at the road junction in the middle of Grim’s Ditch, when I had just finished navigating most of it by the light of my mobile until World’s Greatest Crew, Kat, rescued me by headlamp, deposited me into a camp chair, and plied me with nutrition-to-order. While trying to regain control of the contents of my skull, I spotted a shooting star which somehow prompted me to decide ‘this is not why I run’. At the time I was committed to timing out of the race and finishing my route anyway, but by the time I got to Goring I realised it wouldn’t be clever, having just completed a course of antibiotics the night before and remembering that ill-fated birthday disaster.
It took a very long time for me to switch off my watch but in the end, I did. I haven’t been back to the Ridgeway since.
Leaving
Streatley
Phoooooo.
The moment I get out of Streatley and head up that endless
climb back onto the hill and into ‘The Night Section’ will be a massive cause
for celebration. Streatley has been the site of one disaster after another –
from ‘crew collection off the injury bench’, to timing out, to delivery back by
the Big Birthday Rescue Taxi – and it’s so important for me to get out of
Streatley when I’m damned good and ready, that I’ve made it my base with a room
at the Bull Inn, supply drop, shower(!) I’ll take my time. I’ll remember my
why. And then I’ll pack up and get the hell OUT OF THERE.
If you happen to catch this as it happens, please ping me –
I am fairly sure I’ll be either bawling or howling at the moon.
Arriving at Foxhill
That fated first race ended at Foxhill. The checkpoint distance proper was roughly 69 miles but I wanted to see a 7 on the watch so walked around in a few circles when I got there until it ticked over. The furthest I’ve ever gone on the Ridgeway from a start at Ivinghoe Beacon is to Foxhill. The furthest distance I’ve ever gone in one go is 70 miles. Everything past Foxhill is an absolute triumph. Those kinds of moments absolutely ignite me, and I will be ablaze.
Arriving at Barbury Castle Country Park gate
Every time I’ve recced the Ridgeway, I’ve visualised climbing up on to Smeathe’s Ridge in anticipation of reaching Barbury Castle. I’ve imagined what it will feel like to have come all that way and to finally put my hand on that gate, to pull it open, and to step through, knowing there is only 10k to go. Knowing this journey I have kept fighting for is nearly complete. On this occasion, there will be many more miles to go after I pass through, but this is going to be pretty special and I will savour it.
Arriving at Avebury
Another long-time visualisation that’s sure to be goosebump-raising. At last I came to Avebury after my 50th birthday outing, when I’d decided to do the miles I missed off during the first race (Foxhill into Avebury, back to Swindon) and it was invigorating and gutwrenching all at once. Passing those stones, into the town, it’s all so clear in my head. It’s all been there for so long and it deserves to come out now.
There will be a celebratory pint or two, provided the pub is still open. Then back to business.
100 miles
Three digits on the watch in one go. Three. That is the big one. I know I am strong enough to do it and I’m not going to disappoint myself again. I expect to hit this milestone somewhere on the way back to Streatley in the final leg, probably between Ogbourne St George and Liddington Castle.
Whatever it takes. Three digits.
Passing the A34 on the return leg
That never-ending stretch from Foxhill through Bury Down truly ends with the A34 for me. I’ve done it so many times now. This crossing will be absolutely something else. Nearly done. Nearly home. Nearly triumphant. Visualising the hell out of this one.
Coming down into Streatley
That descent I know will hurt more than anything I’ve ever done. It’s cambered, it’s flinty, it’ll probably be in the pitch black. I will create new swear words and sharpen the familiar ones. When the descent is done, there’s a paved road. There’s a golf course beside which I stood for ages to get my bearings during that first outing, where I walked into the blackness singing Four Non-Blondes ‘What’s Up’ at the top of my lungs before my walking buddy caught me up.
There’s
an endless line of houses with ridiculously steep driveways.
There’s a big right turn.
There’s a room at the Inn.
And
the sleep of the just.
___
I see this all. It sees me. We’re eyeing each other wondering
who’s got a faster draw? Who’s got the silver bullet? Who shot the sheriff and
who is the sheriff?
Strangely, I’m not amped up right now. I’m not on edge. I’m excited. I'm waiting to suffer, but I’m waiting to fly.
I’m thinking through all the details, finalising my plans…and
preparing for the destruction of them all.
I’m ready to accept every twist and turn, just like those big
real-life ones that have worked me over during the past 17 months. I will tune in
and listen. I will bend. I will pivot. I will stop and do the thing.
I am through fighting, we are in the age of negotiation now.
Funny old dance, that.
Grow. Step. Eat elephant. Move.
Never.
Ever.
Stop.
I will do whatever it takes to finally know this unknown.
Stay tuned.
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