Let it begin.

Lewknor - Nuffield

Even in the midst of such a fright, I never once asked myself why am I doing this? Because every step, every minute, I knew full well. It was no longer a question but an answer, the culmination of a journey that flickered like an early talkie, back and forth between actual life and what seemed to be a simple achievement on a trail, but became so very much more. The reality of how important it was for me to complete this thing was suffocating, this yoke around my neck too heavy, for far too long.

No question at all why I was there.

Despite the horrific chill that had taken hold of me, my wits were clear enough to not only know that I had to keep moving until I warmed up, but also that I would warm up quickly from the exertion. And I did both of those things as expected. Within just a few minutes I had recovered my sensibilities and coordination, and thawed out enough so that I could once again pause, return all my kit to the pack, and move with purpose instead of panic.

It was particularly good fortune that I reached the tree cover alongside Shirburn Hill when I did because the rain had started up again. The respite didn’t last long as the stretch opened back up quickly, and there again my head tilted down to spare the wet glasses as I weaved my way past White Mark Farm.

A small incline on pavement led into another treelined section along Ridge Farm, where I received another swift shock to the system as my presence awakened a particularly effective guard dog that recited at me something along the lines of War and Peace in canine, at an incredible volume. I begged the heavens for there to be a magnificently effective fence between us. It seems that I’m not dead, so I think that prayer was answered pretty much instantly.

It was somewhere near 2 or 3 am at this point, and aside from thinking about not wanting to be attacked by a dog in the dark, it also occurred to me how much more civilisation I was encountering in the middle of the night by being in this section at this time. The timing of the R86 purged competitors from the Goring checkpoint up and out of sight during the hours of darkess to traverse all the deserted Downs between Streatley and Sparsholt Firs, so the only breathing creatures you’d potentially disturb would be of the four-legged variety, most likely more afraid of you than you were of them.

By the time I hooked around to the left at North Farm and its decrepit barn, it was properly hammering down and I considered sheltering for a bit until it passed, but worried I’d get too cold again, I kept moving into the next climb. In retrospect, it’s interesting how much faster you move when you don’t want to bloody freeze to death.

Unfortunately the ascent into Dean Wood didn’t sneak up on me like Lodge Hill, but instead it grabbed me violently by the lungs and squeezed the everloving shit out of me. I didn’t see many animals around but with the grunts and groans coming out my mouth this point I would think I’d scared most of them off. ‘Walk four, breathe four’ was in full effect and it was patently clear what a loss it was when they removed my treadmill to storage the day before we were meant to move and never did. I’d already had the call that we weren’t completing before the removals team came, and if I have one regret it’s that I really should have just turned them back. But I didn’t, because life. Reasons.

It is what it is.

At long last, I reached the summit, and easily dropped down into the bowl of the next hill and back out again to the church of St Botolph’s. I didn’t flip the hill the bird this time, but I sure took a long hard look at the corner of the church gardens, and my thoughts went back in time for a spell. I could picture myself sat there in the rain on that ill-fated birthday run, having struggled beyond compare to get that far, as it seemed this was the best place for someone to be able to find me and get me out of there. I’d been so shattered following the preceding climbing that night, that I consulted with half of my OG Ridgeway crew, Kat, who knew what I was up to and agreed it’d be best to lie down for a bit beforehand near the barn. Unfortunately, the fatigue made me not think to clear a slew of what I’d thought were acorn shells from the ground beneath me, and between the discomfort and the cold of that day I had to keep going despite being completely shattered. That short descent and climb out felt like the most challenging thing I’d ever done. By the time I’d finally sat down and phoned for a taxi, I had nothing remotely left in the tank to even feel sad one way or the other, I only wanted to sleep forever.

But that was that and this was this. I shook my head at the poor luck of that outing and its aftermath and kept moving.

Aside from Whiteleaf Hill, the next ascent into the tiny wood of Jacob’s Tent is my absolute least favourite part of the entire Ridgeway. At only 500 metres, its 75 feet of climbing seems absolutely innocuous on paper, but the placement of this short, sharp, and shit piece of geography some 32 miles in could not be more chimp fodder if it tried, particularly as it comes just after a pleasant downhill trot where you let your guard down entirely before getting punched square in the face.

I gasped and panted my way up those vicious 75 feet, and am absolutely sure I sounded like the Best Little Whorehouse in Swyncombe by the time I exited that wood, thanking whatever is good and holy that it was pissing down with rain so there wouldn’t be anyone about on a night like this to have heard me.

The route then weaved through a particularly mucky patch on the way to the rather grand Ewelme estate, another locale I’d never seen in the dark. I passed without incident until the massive metal gate let off a massive metal squeal as I tried to open it. I couldn’t escape fast enough, desperately hoping the Great Barking Dog of Ridge Farm didn’t have any posh cousins living nearby. I didn’t hear anything other than the rain, along with blood pulsing in my head and rising panic, which eased by the time I dipped into the tiny wood that leads to the fabled Race to the Stones ‘Field of Dreams’.

The last time I was in this field was in the 2023 version of the R86, when it had recently been burnt to a crisp. I was having a hideous time keeping my spirits up that day and thought at least it would be a pleasant descent before it got too dark but when I popped out I reeled in horror and nearly cried. Clearly the farming season had ended and whatever process they use to ensure the soil quality for the next year made sure there was nothing even remotely akin to a dream left in this field. To boot, I’d thought I had my headlamp with me on that occasion to see me into the night but didn’t. Burnt field, no light. It was awful from every angle.

I was hoping things would have improved for me today but on this night – you guessed it – this field was once again Wormageddon. Pissing down with rain. Head down so I could see nothing else. I created many new words in that field, none of them you’d want to teach your Gran.

I escaped into the next tiny wood, into the next wormy field, with the next lashing down rain. It was starting to feel a bit like winning the Shit I Don’t Like lottery. Still, I kept moving forward because there wasn’t anything else to be done. It had to end this time, so clearly, it had to end this way.

Eventually I popped out at a road crossing, then climbed the set of small steps to eventually pass behind what I think of as Rudy Baylor’s House (reminds me of the little place Matt Damon rents in the film The Rainmaker). More motion-sensor lighting popped on, scaring the crap out of me again, and I just wanted to pass by unnoticed. Fortunately I got my wish.

Onward through a reasonably long woodland as the rain finally receded to a drizzle. At long last I popped out of the trees onto Nuffield Golf Course – soft underfoot and vacant. I remember thinking if it had been summer and warm, there may have been teens out on the lash like we used to do. But it was cold, and raining, and empty, aside from one slightly obsessed woman on a mission to slay a particularly stubborn dragon.

I made a beeline for a bench I remembered was tucked in under the trees, and crumpled onto my left side, turning over abruptly when I realised my left arm wasn’t bending properly to be able to cradle my head – I worried that earlier spasm was laying in wait for an encore. Still, despite the drizzle and the bench being absolutely sodden, I probably could have slept there for a while. But once again, the cold raged straight in and after a meditative 30 count of deep breathing it was time to soldier on, lest I start up with the shaking crazies again.

Up I went, and moved off through the back end of the golf course grounds, until they spat me out into the road before Nuffield Church. I was pleased to see the gate to the grounds open, but not so much to see the water tap at the side wasn’t working so there would be no long sit down or snack at the usual resting place. They’d set up a water point right at the gate, however, so I mixed up and downed a Tailwind recovery pouch before topping up my water for the final leg into Streatley.

This place – so familiar and such a massive turning point on every previous occasion. I felt equally at home, increasingly eager to depart, and ready for war.

Behind me – 34 miles of taxing terrain and mental strain, lumps and bumps and mud and rain. Ponderings and similarities, differences and discoveries. Yesterday and today. So much water under that bridge, the one with the troll who hadn’t yet learned how to lose.

Ahead of me, the familiar confines of that motion-sickness-inducing Grim’s Ditch, with its undulations that tip you right and left and back again, little surprise it doesn’t tip you right on your head before it’s done. I desperately want to love it and maybe one day I will. But it’s always been abusive.

I stepped back from the tap and looked into the blackness I was sure was staring back, eyeing me up, ready to joust.

Today I would eye it with mistrust.
Today I would enter it with faith.
Today I would give it no quarter.
Today I would not be its victim.

Today it all ends.

Today it all begins.

___

If this is the end, they better know we gonna fight for it
If this is the end, let it begin, yeah
Stories unfold, let it be known we gon’ show up for it
We gon’ be standing right here.

If this is a dream they better pray they can wake up from it
And if it’s the end, let it begin, yeah
Nothing can stop us, now that we on one, we not gon’ come up for air
We gonna be that nightmare

Let it begin,
There’s nowhere to run to now
Nowhere to hide, the feeling inside ourselves

Let it begin,
We flipping the tables now
We rising up, it was always within

Let it begin.

- Let it Begin, Saysh

(6 / x)

Prologue: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/in-search-of-inner-greatness.html

Part 1: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/why.html

Part 2: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/when-adversity-comes-calling.html

Part 3: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/once-more-unto-breach-dear-friends-once.html

Part 4: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/dream-big.html

Part 5: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/the-big-chill.html

Part 6: https://madmaxruns.blogspot.com/2024/04/let-it-begin.html