Of rage and guts.

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 going on forever like a blaring, neglected car alarm on Bonfire Night.

Now past the Wantage monument, I dipped into the trees for quick business and went straight back to the task at hand. At last the junction with Chainhill Road broke the monotony with a crossing and a car park – tonight occupied by a single unexpected vehicle which set off a bit of fight or flight. This may have woken me up for a good 35 seconds or so.

I was elated to reach the hard left turn at White House Farm, its bit of pavement a welcome reprieve from the tedium of rut and slop and stabbing wind. In fact, suddenly it seemed there was no wind at all in comparison, and I remember thinking clearly that if you remove one obstacle in life, the entire flow changes direction. Like a dam for the damned.

Over Manor Road now, the giant house with its brick wall to the right, sitting in darkness, no doubt with sensibly snoozing inhabitants. I was suddenly desperately in search of a place to rest, and far happier than any sane person would be when I spotted a reasonably flat rock embedded in the front lawn. I made a beeline for it, and sat with a thump and gust of breath. I thought I’d stay for a bit, so shut the headlamp off, closed my eyes and took a remarkably restorative 30 breath power nap.

Before me lay another section I had been dreading, even more so because of the previous night's rain. A seemingly endless chalk road I’d been on previously, always made worse after the wet, when it had been like walking in cement, every step adding an outline to my feet that shaped them like snowshoes, the added weight more impossible to shift with each step. Frustrating on a good day, but I couldn’t bear the thought in the here and now after those hard won 55 plus miles.

To my huge surprise, the chalk was absolutely solid when I started off, even with a sheen I could make out with my headlamp. No difficulties whatsoever moving along, and I actually made short business of it, even conjuring up a persistent inner moan that the hard surface was contributing too much to the pain in my feet.

I should have shut up.

I’ve no idea where precisely it changed, nor what evil force entered the chat, but before I knew it, I was immersed in the deepest, stickiest chalk sludge I have ever encountered, far worse than that previous occasion and light years beyond what I’d been through so far on the current journey. Every step felt like I was dragging a small child hanging on each leg along with me, and I’m muttering and swearing, shaking the crap off my shoes every few minutes, closing my eyes, two breaths, now five, now three, how long have I been in here, no idea, smells like wet plaster (gurk)…

Apoplectic rage rising like a volcano on the move, and only one thought on repeat in my head now—

What kind of sadistic, psychotic-ass, Roman motherfucker thought this was a good idea for a transport route? You cannot be bloody SERIOUS…

There were plenty of other variations of that eruption throughout the remainder of this journey, but you get the idea. The ridiculousness of the conditions had absolutely shunted my energy – full arse over tit – into some bottomless chasm, but despite it all, I swore (clearly!) to myself that there was absolutely no way I was going to stop before I reached the end of the trail, having endured all this.

I cannot recall when chalk purgatory stopped and my sanity returned, but I eventually staggered my way to the car park at Sparsholt Firs where Hobs and his Marvellously Warm Crew Car were waiting. I slumped into the passenger seat, absolutely wrecked, as he sorted another cup of tea. I remember little before downing it, other than gazing out the window wondering how in the name of all that is good and holy I would drag my exhausted carcass back onto that trail.

The tea answered for me, its heat and caffeine doing that funky gut voodoo that heat and caffeine do, and I suddenly needed to urgently escape behind the bushes. Forgetting that I get cold easily, I didn’t consider whether my outerwear would suffice but just grabbed what I needed and ran off in search of a suitable location. But there was no direction I turned in which the wind was not giving me an absolute bollocking. I finally gave up and sorted myself out in a breezy gap between some trees, but by then I’d been in the elements a bit too long for the clothing I had on, and boof, I went straight back into the Mile 26 Shaking Crazies. Again, I struggled to gain control of my hands for the shaking and was shivering so hard I could barely catch my breath.

It's even utterly ridiculous to type this – I’m from Chicago, FFS!

Nevertheless, I was currently in England, freezing my nuts off alongside a car park on a national trail. Incredibly, once again after feeling like I could not run another step, I suddenly found myself sprinting for the car and flinging myself inside.

I can only begin to imagine what poor Hobs must have been thinking as I sat there shivering and shaking and hyperventilating until the blasting heat thawed me out and I could speak again.

But despite having warmed up a bit, I could actually feel that fire in my soul starting to flicker.

I don’t know how I’m going to do this, but I just know I have to do it.

Maybe I said it aloud, maybe it was only in my head. I was despondent yet still unshaken. It was the damnedest thing, and I can’t say that’s ever happened before.

Still, I was ridiculously tired and the idea of going back out in the dark and wind and rain was not on my list of ‘fun things to try right now’.

I think I need to sleep.

That, I did say aloud. And that, I did do, fabulously – in a warm car with the heater running.

An hour later, I was coherent enough to start sorting myself out and trying to get some food down. My go-to Popchips tasted hideously bitter, and immediately went into the heap of rubbish I’d been storing on the dashboard. I swapped out the insoles in my shoes after discovering a weird, linear blister along one heel, patched up the scruffy bits of feet, and got some new socks on.

The lengthy pitstop ended as the sky was starting to lighten, putting another hideously challenging night firmly in the rear view. We chatted a bit and I decided that moving on throughout another long, cold, wet night wasn’t going to happen for a third day because I just didn’t want to risk getting that cold again, considering what kit I had and how I’d struggled the past two days. We thought if I could find a warm place to kip at night after Avebury, then start up again on the following morning to do the final miles to 100, it would be safer and I’d enjoy it more. Hobs said he’d park up near Wayland’s Smithy and try to map out a suitable route. I was considering trying to get a hotel or B&B near Avebury to stay close to the trail.

With the beginnings of a plan in place, I got up to sort my pack for the onward journey. I decided to leave my food bag in the car to save some weight, took only the snacks I’d need in that short stretch, and got ready to go.

I started day three determined not to catch a chill again, and was duly kitted out in a wool sports bra, long sleeve wool base layer, fleece jacket, down hooded jacket, rain jacket, wool hat, wool neck buff, buff over my hat, winter tights, rain pants, waterproof socks, and winter gloves.

I was just about warm enough.

A quick goodbye and I was off again, thinking about how the next stretch had finished me off once before, four years prior.

Today it would lose.

There was no other possible outcome.

___

I will run, I will rise, I will grow
I will climb to the place I belong
I will fight like the world′s never known

Here we go

- Here We Go, Norman

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*Image is representative of the terrain, I didn't take any shots this night!

(9 / x)

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