The big chill.

Princes Risborough - Lewknor

It wasn’t the first time I’d gone diving into the dark on the quest for a finish line, but I had never before come across this particular patch of the world sans daylight.

I covered my headlamp to prevent blinding the few cars that raced through the next junction, and crossed well after they’d gone. The road rose steadily to the entrance of another field which had previously been full of either poppies or some other fragrant flora, but today it held nothing more than the olfactory assault of a massive manure heap blocking the way ahead. All I could see were shit and shadows.

If there has ever been an analogy to represent the past few years of my life, I think I’ve just typed it.

As omens go, this was not a particularly positive one. Still, I made my way past the obstruction and along the barely discernible way forward, as you do.

It was the start of many similar field crossings (minus the giant pile, thank heavens) where I had plenty of company in the form of what I would eventually label ‘diving worms’ – largely what it says on the tin. I had to look down to keep my footing, but this being the countryside and home for the smaller creatures of the planet, nightfall seemed to kick off an absolute rave of tiny worms that would burrow into holes in the ground just as I’d spot them. Now I’m not gonna lie, I wanted to vomit every time I saw one, maybe because (gurk) diving worms – or maybe also because it reminded me of that Kevin Bacon B movie, Tremors, and I half expected to be swallowed up by one of their angry giant cousins at any minute.

And I wasn’t even hallucinating!

Off in the distance to my left, I spotted a green light peering back at me from the blackness like some otherworldly night watchman. I was racking my brain as to what kind of outdoor lighting would come in that colour, because surely no headlamp came in neon green, when the piercing wail of a siren came blaring out from the treeline a few hundred metres in front of me, shortly followed by the roar of a passing train. I thanked my lucky stars I wasn’t any closer to all the commotion when it kicked off, as I only had the tights I was wearing and minimal wipes to hand, and would absolutely have soiled myself.

Soon enough, it all came clear as I reached the tracks to see that the green eye must have been little more than a bog standard train signal. Still, I looked both ways about six times before I was certain I could cross without risk of death, and shot the light a stack of daggers for causing such agitation. If you’re a non-runner and want to understand the emotional outlay you give during an ultra, I’m here to tell you that you’ll legitimately rage at a train signal, and no other runner would bat an eye.

The trail skirted round a golf course before passing through two more fields where I fondly recalled friendly chats with two previous R86 competitors that I later spotted on the Spine Race rosters. Great oaks from little acorns grow, after all.

As I was trudging along trying to figure out exactly when I’d reach one particularly steep, rutted, and despised ascent, I spotted a bench. I wish I could type the cartoon sound effect I heard in my head (the one where they’re running and skid when they hit the brakes) as I actually stopped and whirled around to see the terrain dropping off behind me, then started laughing like a loon as I jigged that I’d just ascended the first rise of Lodge Hill and didn’t even realise it. The terrain had been so sodden and damp from the rain that once again, the underfoot conditions were absolutely nothing I’d experienced before and as such were completely unrecognisable. What a boost for the head game to have done this hill in that darkness, and not even know it.

As I reached the top and started making my way down, I thought back to my 51st birthday run (the One With That Damned Ear) when the short break at the top of this very hill would be the last time I’d feel reasonably whole for three months. Not today, though. Health in check. Energy levels stable. All systems go.

So I kept going.

As you do.

Onward still to a familiar kissing gate, which today was blocked by a massive fallen tree that looked so out of place I was sure I’d taken a wrong turn. I peered underneath it to determine if it was safe or even possible to pass, then went through with a funky sideways limbo along with bags of relief that I didn’t have to scout out an alternative in the dark.

The field ahead would be overrun with corn in high summer, but on this night it was another fricking Glastonwormy. I was sure they’d sent out invitations to this invertebrate rave, as it was positively heaving with those diving things. To make matters worse, the rain had suddenly taken on a bit of an attitude, so it was either look up and be blinded by sopping glasses or be forced to watch the party under my feet. It really is a wonder I didn’t puke right there and then.

I remember feeling absolutely alive and somewhat giddy when I finally crossed the road and ascended the slow rise through the next field. Despite the rain hammering down, I was feeling appropriately kitted out for the time being and eminently positive. I was thinking with total clarity ‘it is ON and it ends here.’ You couldn’t have kicked the grin off my face. Although to be fair the increased elation may have also been down to the fact that I hadn’t just been consumed by the critters in the mosh pit.

The next gate appeared in the middle of the fence line to my left, leading into a field I always think of as ‘the one with the barrel’ – you head down towards what appears to be some kind of storage container in the middle of a lengthy dip, then come back up the other side, all while being eyed by a massive herd of sheep. Different scene altogether at night when you’re greeted by random sets of glowing, floaty eyes, from every direction.

I was keenly aware of the time of year with regard to those sheep, and worried I’d frighten them, so moved slowly and gently. There didn’t seem to be any other way to pass than straight through the middle as they were spread across the entirety of the hill. Sure enough, off went the masses out of the blue in an awful hurry, leaving a baby alone directly up ahead in my path. I actually wanted to weep. Instead, I took the largest arc in the opposite direction, while searching for the small metal kissing gate I’d always used to exit the field.

Despite an intensive search as I walked, I couldn’t spot the gate to save my life, and I didn’t want to worry the sheep anymore, so I stopped and scanned the hedgerow for anything that remotely looked like a way out. Sure enough, that old, familiar, rickety thing had been replaced by a new, wider gate at the top corner of the field. It was yet another change since that long ago first adventure, and it was immensely bittersweet to acknowledge the passing of time, while making me feel ever so glad the frequency of my return visits had given me such detailed knowledge of the route.

I turned back for a last long look at the baby still alone in the field, and hoped with all my heart it would give those cowardly elders a proper dressing down when they finally skulked back to its side. Nobody puts baby in a corner, after all.

The new gate opened directly beside a directional finger post, guiding me into a favourite undulating bit that somehow reminds me of Yosemite with it’s pretty, high trees, and long upward views, regretfully left unseen in the pitch.

I walked strongly, recalling that this was the very place my wheels fell off in advance of That Damned Ear, where I’d started feeling the crippling fatigue that sent me in search of a lie down roughly every 20 minutes and slowed my pace to a crawl. Today, I poured out of the exit entirely unscathed, and gave a nod to the stump I’d sat on that night, remembering how I’d leaned heavily on my poles with my eyes shut, in search of some kind of restoration when there was none to be found. It was raining then, too.

It rained for a very very long time.

Up ahead, a bench where I’d received a supportive text on that occasion beckoned again, so I sat down and had a little snack. I didn’t want to stay too long as it was still drizzly and damp, and that cold was stealthily working its way into my marrow.

I motored through Chinnor, past the quarry that usually echoed with the laughter of trespassing teens, now silent. That oft sharp and astronomically boring terrain was not only delightfully damp and spongy for some time but I couldn’t see anything well enough to tire of it. I tilted my head up to get a better look at the way ahead and gasped at the carnage in front of me. The easy terrain would soon descend into multiple channels of flooded chalk ruts, with little other safe means of passage than to hug the left hand edge. My heart sank straight into that sludge, as the stretch I’d entered was notoriously heinous underfoot on a dry day.

One more time and you’ll never have to do it again. Off you go.

I spoke aloud the mantra I’d repeat a fair few times over the next three days, and headed into the mess.

That reasonable left-hand side disappeared into another sludgy slip fest, so I crossed over to the right, using my poles for balance. I was yanked from my day(night?)dreaming by a furious shooting pain in my dodgy left shoulder, and I nearly dropped both my pole and myself into the nearest rut, suddenly unable to use the arm without agony. I will never quite know how this didn’t put me straight into a spin, but I calmly transferred both poles to my right hand and kept walking. I suspect it’s because I’d absolutely expected the shoulder to play up after all the injury – but not this soon. Nevertheless, I’d planned for a problem and here it came. I didn’t give it more than a second’s thought, figuring I would just have to limit use of the arm for the duration.

Relentless forward progress and all.

Fortunately, the spasm settled in about 15 minutes and never returned, likely due to odd placement of the pole in the tricky terrain.

If you’d have told me prior to that moment I had within me the capacity to find that kind of serene problem-solving on this trail, I’d have laughed in your face. I still don’t know quite where it came from but it’s gone into the archive at the front of my brain for use in emergencies. It occurs to me now that maybe it’s the life trials that strengthen the capacity to cope on a challenge, when here all this time I’ve thought it was the other way around. It's probably both. Yin and Yang, in technicolour.

I balanced and trudged with a metronomic pace, head down from the rain and quietly singing whatever song popped next into my head. Before I knew it I’d reached the water tap at Aston Rowant, so I topped up as quickly as I could to ensure the motion sensor lighting went off and I’d be long gone before disturbing anyone.

I started to feel like I needed a proper meal so decided the tunnel under the M40 would be a good place to rest, more sheltered from the elements this time round. As I stepped in, it felt much warmer than outside, and I found a good spot to rest. Got the pack off and sat on my favourite kit purchase of all, a foam-backed foil pad that weighed absolutely nothing, cost about the same, and reflected body heat back onto my legs.

On top of ingesting a pre-made Mediterranean tuna pasta dish (lush) and a coffee (double lush), I needed to tend to my feet and get some fresh socks on. I was feeling really fresh and optimistic, sharing a photo of the set up and checking messages as I rested. It was all very meditative and peaceful, but I was starting to get a bit cold so thought I’d best hurry it up.

I didn’t move fast enough. No surprises there, then.

One minute I was smearing trail toes on my freshly taped feet, and the next, my hands were shaking uncontrollably and I was shivering so hard I could barely breathe.

I struggled to summon the coordination to pull on my socks and get my shoes back on. By the time I’d done that, I looked somewhat helplessly at the kit scattered all around me, and I was finding it hard to map out what I needed to do next.

Get up NOW. You have to get moving NOW, Maxine. GO.

A voice in my head. Mine? Dad’s? It was just as clear as that visit home to say goodbye to my Pop forever, when on my last day there he’d been in a fevered daze for hours, when he suddenly bolted upright, looked me dead in the eye, pointed his finger with certainty and said ‘YOU gotta go pack.’

NOW. GO.

I wasted no time in scraping up all I could find to shove back into my pack wherever it fit, my hands shaking all the while, my brain just chanting go go go go go go go…

The mat had been neatly curled into a roll and affixed to the back of the pack all day. I didn’t have time to replace it, but hastily rolled it up, grabbed the last few things and my poles, and flung my pack over a single shoulder. After a last look to be sure I didn’t leave anything behind, I took off running up the trail.

___

Get ready to take on the night
Get ready to run for your life
Get ready to look at the dark
Get ready to know who you are

Ain't no rest for the wicked, no fear in our eyes
Stand our ground and resist it, if we wanna survive

Ain't no rest for the wicked –
Better get ready to fight the battle.

- Silverberg / Rayelle - Battle

(5 / 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