Depth Over Distance —Attempting my first 100 mile ultramarathon, Ultra Scotland 100.
I love ultrarunning because I don’t understand it. I understand none of it. The 25 hours 33 minutes I spent running at GB Ultra’s Scotland 100, caused even more confusion.
In fact, it caused more than confusion. It caused a cascade of pain, anguish, ache and feelings of true despair. There wasn’t really any moment of goodness. All the good seemed to be shrouded by the intense coating of blistering sun, broken shredded feet and a dead spirit within.
Yet still, it was a beautiful, meaningful — in fact, the most “big” experience I’ve ever had in my entire life, and despite not finishing, I really wouldn’t change it for the world.
So I ask myself — why?
Why do I do this? Why do I want to do this? Why am I doing this?
At mile 67, I couldn’t stop expressing to my close friend & warm soul of a human Rachel (who was pacing me), that “this is fucking stupid”.
I have never wanted the ground to swallow me up before. I mean, I have, lots. But I’ve always then wanted it to at least let me back out when I’ve gotten over myself.
This time, I craved nothing more than for everything to just end. That sounds a little intense and dramatic, but intense and dramatic was how my heat-exhausted, over-endured mind was feeling after being on my feet for 25 hours.
But I’m beyond wanting to figure out why. I know why, on some levels. We all do, really. We all crave meaning, self-exploration, edge-finding, void-chasing, grounding experiences, to remind us of what it means to be alive.
But more so, how — how does one keep going when every cell within is saying to stop? What comes over us? Where does that will, strength, drive come from?
When you remove the need for approval, to tell people your achievements and how hardcore you are, and insert all other surface level drives..
(Because they will never get you through such feelings of despair, at least, in my experience)
There is something else within — that has no regard for the feelings, the pain, the ache, the discomfort, despair..
But something that has an infinite, endless amount of keep going-ness.
I don’t have the answer. But I for sure went to the most edgey of my own edges I have ever been. Which is really — what I’ve always deeply wanted. To find that line between can’t and can. I actually wrote this a couple of weeks before the race —
“Part of me wants to experience the deep depths. The moment where I don’t think I could possibly go on. Where mentally, physically, everything sucks, is dark, is painful, and I’m left lying alone on the floor crying into a bog. Part of me fears this depth and wants nothing to do with it. What happens? What choice do I make? Where does the line get drawn where you can still choose between experiencing feelings vs suffering? Do I have the mental strength, the mental space? Or do I fight, resist & want out?”
Edges are made up. They’re all but mental constructs waiting to be shattered, but nevertheless they are still relative and existent within moments of time. In this moment, in many moments of time throughout — I found edges.
And minus the bog, I got what I asked for.
Friday 9th June, I arrived in Scotland. All 25 million bags of the endless stuff. So. Much. Stuff.
yeah you know just incase I eat 50 Belvita bars?
(I ate 3)
I was surrounded by a silence. There were little thoughts, little feelings, little anything. Just spacious emptiness, which felt calm and settling. Until it became unsettling that I felt calm.
I’ve never ran 106 miles before. I’ve ran 50 miles, 3 times. The 2nd time, was GB Ultra’s Snowdon 50, of which there was also a 100 mile event on too. I remember being 5 miles away from finishing, 17 hours on my feet, and speaking to a guy who was not even half way. I could not, in the current state of beaten up legs and feet, comprehend how that is even possible. To do that, again?
Like, you know when you look at the moon and remember how far away it is and that there’s like other galaxies and we’re so tiny and what is the meaning of life, kind of thing? That’s how it felt. Utterly incomprehensible.
Soon enough, 5 days later I booked onto running Ultra Scotland 100, a 106 mile race across the Southern Upland Way in June. Which was 9 months away.
I appear to be fascinated by the incomprehensible. The lack of theoretical, logical, intellectual understanding. The thing where the only way to understand it is to experience it. To me, that’s what life is. That’s what we’re here for.
It’s an empty feeling holding an abundance of knowledge with little Truthful understanding and knowingness of something. I don’t want to conceptually understand things. I mean, part of me does, but there’s something that wants more, and that something always seems to drive me further than I ever feel comfortable going.
Contained in calmness, I went to bed at 10pm. Slept on and off. I woke up at 2:30AM, ready to begin the morning ritual of please let me have a poo before I run for a very long time.
Calmness, remained. Time seemed to last forever. Bag packed, bagels eaten, coffee drank, the do — done, on the road we go.
I discovered a new song, by Ben Howard, “Depth Over Distance”. The lyrics and soothing noise felt apt. Apart from depth over distance, not today Ben. Distance is the name of today. But perhaps Ben was right. Depth seemed to infiltrate way more than any distance.
I arrived on the start line at 05:10am, still surrounded by a bubble of calmness. Confused, calmness. Perhaps denial. Perhaps my brain’s way of shielding me from the trauma I was about to inflict on my being, who knows. But it was a little nicer than the whole “I can’t eat because I think I’m going to be sick and I might explode because I’m so nervous and excited” pre-race ritual.
6am, we set off.
1 hour in, it was hot. 7am, in Scotland, and it was hot. Am I dreaming? Sun blazing, little wind. It was forecast to be 29 degrees, little cloud. This I was incredibly apprehensive about.
20 degrees is hot. Especially to run in. At least for a stubborn Northerner who refuses to wear trousers if it’s 11 degrees. So bordering 30 degrees, with no heat-acclimitsation, running 106 miles, on exposed land, was a little unnerving.
I soon discovered that my body was struggling. 8 miles in, the first checkpoint reached, my garmin was getting a little angry at me at the fact my heart rate was unusually high.
But I felt fine, my breathing fine, legs fine, all fine. I concluded it was wrong, and to ignore it and go off of feel.
1 hour later, I recognised I was having a really shitty time. I was very in my head, projecting into the fact I’m not going to bed tonight and will likely be running until tomorrow evening, and the rest. There was little appreciation for the beautiful surroundings, bulbous hills, birds singing. Little desire to interact and chat with others. Something felt off. Something within felt like it was missing.
I proceeded, ignoring the angry man in my watch. Ignoring the angry man in my head, concluding it was just a low, it would end soon.
It didn’t.
By 9am, it was something mad like 18 degrees. No cloud cover, little wind. Hot, especially when running.
After getting to the top of Benbrack Hill, I decided to take a moment, pause, slow down and breathe. I saw my heart rate come down, my mind became less turbulent and everything seemed ok again.
I realised my body was struggling in the heat. I also realised my garmin wasn’t wrong. I slowed my pace right down and concluded if I want to get anywhere near to running even 50 miles today, I need to be sensible and listen to my body.
My expectations of running, needed to be let go of. The next hour, I spent running/walking up and down bulbous hills. To maintain a steady walk on flats, my heart rate was 158bpm. It’s normally 150bpm, max, when running easy.
As I let my body return to a more relaxed state, I had a moment of enjoyment. I ate food without thinking it was awful, I appreciated the views, I felt grateful for the fact I was able to even do this, and all felt well. I cannot argue with reality. Well, I can — but I would suffer, badly.
The ego and need to run at a pace I enjoyed, slipped through my hands and away into the hills. I’m here to have a good time, to learn, to experience, to appreciate. I’m not here to drag myself to the finish in a “good” time. That’s not why I run.
4 hours in, I came across a stream and poured my body into it. It felt great. Cold.
This was a long stretch, 18 miles between checkpoint 1 and 2, and I could feel the rushing in my mind building. I wanted to get there soon. I wanted cold fresh fruit, a cold cup of juice, to finally see my amazing crew who came to support and help. I soon lost all ability to be present.
Mile 25, 1 mile away from the checkpoint, my feet exploded. My pinky toe felt like it had been grated with a cheese-grater and stabbed with needles. I didn’t anticipate my feet being this painful only 25 miles in.
I arrived at the checkpoint and my pain and ache soon turned into warmth and love as I felt so looked after by the amazing volunteers and the wonderful humans who were crewing for me. I had no words to say, exhausted by the midday heat, feet blistered to bits, and anticipating another 30 hours of this, but I felt better in their presence.
I soon set off, fuelled by salty potatoes and watermelon. I felt shit. The sun was just hot. Have I mentioned? IT WAS SO DAMN HOT. We were heading up vast, green hills, no shelter. The sort of heat where looking at the ground makes you feel nauseous.
I did my best to be where my feet where. To stop projecting into the future, stop getting lost in how exhausted and depleted I felt. But this I failed to do. I felt I’d lost all cognitive autonomy, my mind had been taken prisoner by the conditions. A swirl of pain and negativity kept me bound up.
Going up this never ending hill, a lovely guy who I never got the name of (or probably did, but forgot it like I did everyone elses) was taking a small rest on a well placed bench. He offered me a seat, I declined. 2 seconds later, I succumbed.
Sweet relief. Stop. Take in the view. Breathe.
I stuck with this lovely guy for another 30 mins or so, slowed my pace which was well needed, and had a great chat. I got pulled out of my head, the pain, the negativity, the heat and everything was fine. Which is always, just so peculiar. I’ve known for a short while that where I place my attention creates my reality — but this time it felt like I had no conscious control of that.
But this moment, chatting, sharing, slowing — pulled me out. All was ok. I soon came across a fantastic sewer-looking river/stream/water source thing, and I threw myself in it. It felt so good.
33 miles in, roughly 2 miles till the next checkpoint, I began to feel a little better. Lighter, stronger, smoother — mentally and physically. Although this subtle haste of wanting to get there sooner, was still there.
I’m not sure if it was the incomprehensible idea that I still had 73 miles left that meant I just couldn’t bear to be present to what I’d made my reality to be, or if the pain in my feet was too much, the heat of the sun, or just a dead, dying spirit. I have no idea. But this haste and urgency stayed with me till the end..
Making it very, very hard.
I eventually made it to the 34 mile checkpoint. In great spirits, for once. The pain in my feet had become a new baseline in my brain. I had a great appetite, devoured some more crisps and potatoes. My legs felt, as quoted back to me from my good friend Kate, “the best they’ve ever felt”. All was good.
I set off in good spirits and happy that some clouds had appeared, giving us weird running people a slight break. It was 29 degrees, and the tarmac was actually melting. 29 degrees, in Scotland. But my being felt light. Finally.
Climbing up to the highest point, Lowther Hill, I noticed fellow weird running humans struggling. Many stopping, heavy breathing, sighing. For once, I felt ok. I reached the top, and was excited for a nice runnable downhill section.
Stuffing my face with the most incredible avocado sandwhich made by the legend Jayatsena, a good friend and part of my crew, I let gravity take me as I began to fall, with a slight semblance of control. Until it all went tits up.
My feet exploded, again. Every blister feeling like an excruciating raw-nerve ending exposed falling onto a cheese grater, that was the ground. Every step going down was unbearably painful, and I figured there was nothing I could do about it but to just get on with it.
I stopped reacting to the pain, and let it wash over me. I was relieved for another uphill, so the pressure would be relieved, until I was reminded of the blisters on my heels that were getting squeezed as my foot pushed back against my shoe. Pain. Entire, complete pain.
The endless ups and downs didn’t meet my expectation of assuming there was only one big hill, there were many. I kept running, keeping a good pace, doing my best to not be startled by the knives living in my shoes. I had a small sense of warrior-esque-ness (a new word), when I remembered pain only hurts. It’s just a feeling. Then it got louder, and I lost this new-found sense of strength. Pain hurts, and hurt is bad.
I eventually arrived at the 4th checkpoint, 40 miles in. This was the last checkcpoint before a long 18 mile stretch. It was 6pm, I’d been going for 12 hours, it was 27 degrees, I felt a little done. I was just wanting to get to mile 58, where I’d be joined by my first pacer — close friend Rachel. I knew I could relax then… and so the games continued. Not being present and wishing the time away.
My feet were fucked, that was the conclusion. Some amazing paramedics helped my crew tape them, cushion them, but really nothing felt different. I just had to accept pain had become me, and it was hear to stay. It was now time to dance. It just so happens it wasn’t a fun dance. A dance descending into darkness.
After leaving the checkpoint, I realised the time, and that I had 5 hours until the cutoff. Shit. I’ve never, ever been close to a cutoff, and so time had never been a factor — always allowing me to truly rest and listen to my body. By rest, I mean not rush. Stop when I need to sort something out, not go faster than I can sustain, enjoy the surroundings, etc.
5 hours to cover 18 miles (which at the time I thought was 15). Sounds easy on any normal day. But with 40 miles already in my legs, 3000m elevation, and a day of being roasted alive by the sun — I felt unsure. I didn’t like the feeling. I knew I could make it, if I stayed focussed. However, I also knew if I didn’t stay focussed and if I had any problems with navigation, energy, feet — then I wouldn’t make it. All the responsibility was on me. I knew I had to forgo the “fun” I loved, and it was time to grind, push, struggle, likely — suffer.
The next 2 hours, despite the beautiful sun beginning to set, the birds singing the night time songs and the air having that wonderful evening quality to it, were awful. I was mentally figuring out my pace, timings, can I make it? How fast do I need to go? But the problem was, I never just took a second to actually calculate it. I was half chewing on it, half trying to be present and not stress about it; resulting in me doing neither but feeling stressed and exhausted.
I ran a lot, faster than I probably should have, there wasn’t a chance I was missing this checkpoint. Every step I knew I was making my feet worse. The sharp non-controlled falling downhills were causing micro-explosions around my toes. I was rushing, scattered mind and scattered legs.
I neglected eating, neglected the wondrous moment of a sunset and summer-evening air, and single-handedly focussed on moving forward.
Dragging myself forward, in the presence of pain and exhaustion, I suddenly burst into tears. And couldn’t stop. That kind of crying where you sound like you’re laughing. For 20 minutes I was running and crying. A great combo, if you’ve never tried it. I knew I could make it, but I knew it would hurt. All joy was lost. And I felt frustrated at this fact.
I do this because I love it. I do this because I love being outdoors, in awe at the beauty of the world, life, nature.. and I felt I’d had no opportunity or ability to do this. My brain felt hijacked by sensations beyond my control, I felt the strength of the intangible spirit, lost.
The section lasted forever. A never ending forest, my feet exploding. My mind frantically calculating and fretting about not making it in time. I eventually succumbed to the fact that I couldn’t stop crying, and rang 2 of my close friends and who were part of my crew, Rachel and Kate.
Trying to hold it together, failed. I cried for about 5 minutes, unable to speak much sense, other than “It just hurts so much I’m not going to make it” or something like that. I was told with a calming yet authoritative tone, to slow down, don’t rush, eat some food, get my head torch out, and all is well.
I was also asked if I’d seen any animals on my adventure. I said I’d seen a Beetle. They were confused. I was confused why they were confused. A laugh. A lightness of laughter. Finally.
This was an interesting experience. Being someone who struggles to cry, ever, emotionally suppressed or perhaps just not my way of expressing emotion, but this was like a tap that had been stuck at full flow. I felt so vulnerable, fragile and like I just needed a big warm hug.
I used to identify and pride myself with being emotionally unexistent. With being someone who can just get on with things, doesn’t complain, doesn’t cry, doesn’t feel. I thought feelings were a sign of weakness. I mean, I really was just terrified of feelings, because they’re beyond my control. I have never liked that. I’ve always wanted control, over my mind. Yet I’ve always failed to have that, the more I’ve tried.
The last 2 years, has been a “journey” (sorry for the cliche) of accepting, expressing and allowing myself to be a human that feels. And such, expression has become incredibly important to me. I don’t want to be a repressed robot. It’s a defensive, survival-mechanism, but I don’t want to live like that. Stuck to the confines of my own control. I want to be taken by the wind, surrendering to what is.
So anyway — the crying was interesting, but it felt good. It made me realise I was really nearing a point I’d never been before. This is what I’m here for, I guess. But it didn’t feel good.
I thought I had 2 miles to go till the 55 mile checkpoint, until I bumped into the legend that is Lynne, who I’d chatted with before, and who went on to complete the entire 107 miles (legend) — and she said the checkpoint was 58 miles. So we had 5 miles to go. Spirit, crushed. This also meant we were rushing to get there in time.
It was almost dark, and we had a 5 mile road section until we arrived in Moffat, at checkpoint 5. Most of it was downhill, which might sound nice if you’ve never ran further than 30 miles, but downhill isn’t nice. Not with raw, broken feet. Especially not on road.
Me & Lynne were both struggling. Both having a shit time. Both outwardly declaring how utterly shit this is. What’s the point. Why? This is awful. She was falling asleep, stumbling everywhere. I felt a mild responsibility to make sure she didn’t fall into a car and die.
We didn’t put our head torches on, but resigned to the idea of just jumping out of the way of cars flying past us on this windy, pitch-black country road. Lynne dresssed in full black, me in mostly black. A bad idea, in retrospect, but we didn’t die.
Our time together went a little like this:
This is awful.
5 minutes of silence. Grunting. Moaning.
This is stupid.
5 minutes of silence. Grunting. Moaning.
Repeat.
Further down the road, Kate & Kate (2 of my crew), were driving up to find me. They told us that from where we were, it was a 58 minute walk (3 miles) to Moffat (where the 5th checkpoint was).
We were both hurting, knackered, entirely spent. It was 11:03pm. The cut-off was at midnight, 00:00am. We had 57 minutes to get there. It was a 58 minute walk. We had to run, bear the pain. Grunt our way through it.
We both agreed to run.
Acting on urgency and fear — I somehow managed to run 2 x 9 minute miles, having ran 56 miles, feet shredded, fuel depleted, and having being unable to walk without excruciating pain and lack of energy.
The mind. It’s a funny thing. I have no idea how my body did it. I suddenly felt great, strong, like nothing could stop me. Pain disappeared, I was going to make it.
I made it into Moffat at 23:40. 20 minutes to spare. I felt exhausted, frustrated and very, very sweaty. It was 19 degrees. At 11pm. In Scotland. What!
I had really lost all faith for any of this working out. I was just entirely spent. Time pressure was staring me in the face. I remember thinking, if I can just get to 6am, then I’ll be happy. 24 hours, at least. Perhaps this thought alone was what killed me. But I’d lost all faith.
I managed to eat half, maybe less than half, of a pot noodle. Then away into the night me and Rachel went. It felt great to have Rachel. No longer alone. I felt reassured that I was being somewhat carried by her presence.
I expressed, many times, concerns of not making the cutoff for the next checkpoint. We left Moffat, mile 58, just after midnight. The cutoff for the next checkpoint at mile 72, was 08:00AM. We had just under 8 hours to cover 14 miles.
“If you just walk that, you can do it”. I remember being told. I still wasn’t convinced.
We meandered into the darkness together, ready to get through the night. I was excited though, to see the sunrise. That was the main thing I was looking forward to throughout this long adventure, was watching the world wake up and imagining the energy that would give me.
2 miles in to the steep climb in the densely dark forest..
Errr Rachel..
My nose was bleeding. But like, not just bleeding. Projectile gushing. Thankfully I was on my period too, so I had tampons available, of which we shoved up my nose. Which, btw, I would not advise to anyone. They smell awful. Turns out I also don’t have a vagina-shaped nose. It didn’t really fit.
10 minutes later, I took it out, only to find the force of blood was even stronger, and still gushing. I could see the thoughts in Rachel’s mind. Worried about what on earth we would do if I just bled out.
This section, is really in the middle of nowhere. There is no other way to get out other than to either go completely back on yourself, or get to the next checkpoint. It is long and desolate, which makes it beautiful, in more pleasurable circumstances. This time beautiful wasn’t the word.
It eventually stopped, my new light pink top covered in blood, hands looking like I’ve just murdered someone, face like I’ve misplaced melted chocolate.
We kept going. Going and going. I felt surprisingly awake. 2am, it was dark, middle of the night, I’ve been going for 20 hours. My body felt tired, awful, achy, hurting, but my eyes felt sharp and awake.
Rachel kept me going with endless stories, of which she got a response of about 1 word, if you can call it that, more like a grunt of “yea”. A hard audience. I can’t really remember the stories. I just know she wouldn’t stop talking. But I knew what she was doing.
I was really struggling to eat. My mouth/throat just couldn’t swallow. I’d chew and chew and chew, and eventually have to spit it out because I just couldn’t swallow. My stomach felt fine, but my mouth-throat complex did not. This became a problem that lasted for longer than was good.
I sat down on the wet grass, for 10 seconds of relief. It started to rain. I started to get cold. And more cold. Then a bit more cold. I felt done. Rachel told me to get up. I did, relctuantly. We kept trudging on. Letting the waves of Ben Howard push us through, it felt emotional.
We eventually got through the forest, and got to the start of the climb up to Croft Head 637m. I felt a burst of energy, my legs were beginning to feel like mine again, and some wave of goodness came over me. Dawn was beginning to break, and a sudden feeling of:
WE’RE GOING TO MAKE IT.
Some faith, hope, feeling had arrived, and I felt good. Singing to Purple Rain on the top of Croft Head, while pink broke throughout the sky, finally — a good moment.
I celebrated by playing the drums, with my poles, on the ground, to the chorus of Purple Rain, which was now “Scotland Rain”. Until I stupidly smashed myself in the cheek with the spiky end. Ouch.
We made it to the top, the pink hue illuminating the hills in the distance. Headtorches turned off, music turned off as a rule, an instruction by me.
“When the birds start singing, we are not allowed music”.
I decided we should run down. Make up some time, and also, I was feeling good. Until I wasn’t. And it all, literally, went downhill from here.
My feet. My bloody feet. So painful running down. I knew I was running weirdly, avoiding landing on my heel, pinky toes or big toe s— results in a very strange running gait, avoiding all main points of contact and stability in the feet. As the light of the sky ridded the darkness, my energy did the opposite.
I began falling asleep. Slurring my words.
We saw a marshall at the bottom of the mountain, who had come out to check I was alive. My tracker wasn’t updating, and I was apparently the last person, there was nobody behind me. He didn’t tell us this at the time.
I’d gone 5–6 hours now without eating much. I’d had nibbles of small things, not drank much. The accumulation of running for 22 hours, through dawn, day, dusk, dawn, extreme heat and blistering sun, as well as already being in a significant energy deficit — was catching up. Oh, and the lack of sleep, well — no sleep.
That faith, hope, had gone. I could barely move. I kept stopping, leaning on my poles, grunting, shouting, falling asleep. We kept moving.
Rachel was still firing away with the stories, jokes, one-way conversation. I remember her telling some story that was really funny. But nothing in me could laugh or respond. I had no energy to release anything. But I remember part of my brain found humour, I just couldn’t express it.
I said to her I felt sad that I couldn’t even laugh or smile and let her know she was funny.
I kept trying to eat, but it just wasn’t happening. More time passed, a bigger energy deficit created, more sleep deprivation built — everything kept getting worse.
I declared that I think I needed a nap. I was speaking as if I’d drank 5 bottles of wine. Unable to eat, drink. Walking at the pace of a 3 month year old. My eyes barely open. Trudging alone, knives in my shoes, trying to use my poles as legs. I had no idea of the time, of how long left, anything. All cognitive power was lost.
I said I was having a nap. Rachel said no. She said I could, but when we find a sheltered place. I was shivering, cold, a little wet. I thought this exposed, jagged ground looked perfect for a nap. Oh the floor. The floor looked so good, delicious. So comfortable. Oh I wanted the floor to swallow me up whole. We figured, perhaps a nap would buy us time, let me eat again, let me move faster.
The lighter it got, the more tired I became. Confusing.
We eventually found shelter in a small wooded forest, that happened to be swarming with midgies. I threw my bag off and collapsed on the ground, my feet placed up a tree.
Don’t let me have more than 5 minutes.
My brain swirling with endless dreams, but I was still somewhat awake. I could feel the throbbing in my feet become more aggressive, the fluid violently dripping down inside my legs, it was an awful feeling, but I presumed it was doing good.
I remember lying there, the noise of the birds, the relief of stopping, the dream-like state, it all felt ok. But I knew I had to get up. It was probably 5am, or something. I’d been awake for 27 hours, on my feet for 23 hours.
Resembling a very old man, I stood up, put my bag on and off we went. There were so many midges, we were literally being eaten alive.
I was slurring my words less, my brain felt a little less dead. But I still couldn’t eat. My legs still couldn’t run.
We’d covered 66 miles. 6 miles till the checkpoint. We can still do it.
I kept flipping between “we can do this” and “I have no hope”. The we can do this was 2% of the time, the drowning feeling of having no hope was 98%.
It all just kept getting worse. I’ve genuinely never felt so awful ever.
We were moving so slowly. So, so slowly. I remember the feeling of knowing there was no way but to keep going. I remember imagining pressing the SOS button on my tracker, and being rescued by an air ambulance. I then imagined the disappointment and guilt I’d feel for wasting precious resources just because I was tired. But I really considered it. Like, really considered it.
We approached the road section, into the checkpoint. This was a long, long ass road.
“Rachel, there are cows on the other side of that gate.”
“What?”
“Look, there are cows”
“Mia, they’re rocks”.
oh.
We kept going. Rachel stopped for a wee, I leant on my poles and fell asleep for 10 seconds before waking myself up from falling.
Everytime I went to the “toilet” (not sure you can call the wild Ettrick Valley a toilet), I had to keep telling Rachel I was alive and awake. She was convinced I was going to find a spot to just lie down and sleep.
It was 6am, or something like that. I’d been going for 24 hours. I looked down at my ankles and realised how swollen they were. My feet literally bulging out my shoes, the Injinji print on my socks spread wide across the top of my ankle. My bottom lip was massive.
I showed Rachel, she looked a little concerned, given I had debriefed my crew on the risks of Hyponatremia. I said it was fine, but I looked like the Michelin Man.
We kept going, kept going. I kept stopping, grunting, breathing, exclaiming how stupid this all is.
But kept, kept saying:
“If we make it in time I will keep going”
I knew all I needed was to stop for 15 minutes, have a hot coffee and some hot, real food. I’d be fine. Every part of me wanted to stop, but I knew the low would soon end.
Rachel kept asking me if there was one thing I could eat, what would it be?
A bacon sandwich.
(we surprisingly were not carrying a hob, a pan, bacon, some buns and some ketchup)
Right. Helpful.
The floor was suddenly made of faces. The jagged, loose gravel all looked like stone-henge men faces. They were everywhere. I kept pointing at these faces. Rachel couldn’t see them. I thought they were so cool. A floor, made of faces! Wow!
I somehow managed to eat a cereal bar, had a bit of a drink, and discovered a way to move without being so awfully slow. Thrusting my hips, each glute at a time. We gained a bit of speed. We were going to make it. I just needed this torture to end.
My feet were so swollen, sore and painful and the urge to take off my shoes was so high. But the thought of the bare, broken blistered skin being spiked by the sharp ground was nauseating.
I kept sharing with Rachel how stupid this all was. I’m never running again. Actually, to be precise
“I’m not running for another 3–5 years.”
Well thought out, clearly.
07:30am, 69.4 miles in, we saw a car driving up the valley.
It looked a little bit like Kate’s (crew) car.
I felt such a boost.
“Wow! Imagine if that’s Kate, that’ll be such a moral boost Rachel”
The car got closer, it was Kate. I felt so relieved, just what we needed, a boost, hopefully she also had the well needed bacon sandwich too.
They pulled up, my Mum got our the car, so did Kate, and started walking towards us, I was confused. I fell into my Mum’s arms, and couldn’t stop crying.
The exhausted, unable to-breathe, empty crying.
She told me to get into the car. I felt very confused, why would I get in the car? That’s cheating. We only have another 3 miles till the checkpoint. I’m not cheating.
Kate then said we weren’t going to make it. We had 30 minutes till the cut-off, and it turns out the checkpoint was 6 miles away. It was 07:30am.
I fell to the ground, lied on my back and just cried, endlessly.
I’ve never, in my life — felt as beaten, empty and broken as I did in that moment.
A cocktail of anguish, anger, despair, pain, relief.
They got me a camping chair, I sat in it, in the middle of this country track, crying, staring at the ground through my half open eyes.
It’s so peculiar how for 25 hours and 30 minutes, all I was craving was the relief of stopping, of the pain being gone, of the sun disappearing.
Yet the second I stopped, the second it was actually over — there was no relief.
It reminds me of “Falling”, by Florence and The Machine —
Because falling’s not the problem, when I’m falling I’m at peace
It’s only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief
In the car on the way to the checkpoint, I felt empty. Void of anything.
I remember my Mum, Kate and Rachel continuously saying I did my best, did so well, I’ve never ran this far before..
But I just felt nothing. I wasn’t gutted, I wasn’t dissapointed. I was just entirely empty.
I knew I had given everything I could have in that moment, in them many, many moments. I couldn’t stop crying.
I arrived at the checkpoint, very confused where I was. I was taken inside, and looked after so well by all the amazing volunteers, my crew, everyone.
I needed food, but I couldn’t eat.
An amazing volunteer Diana, new exactly what I needed. She made me the sweetest cup of tea EVER. There must have been about 5 sugars in it. It tasted so good. She was a true legend, a beacon of light and positivity.
And even at this point, 70 miles ran, finished, done, beaten, broken.. the legend that is Kate still kept shouting at me to drink the tea. Stern yet loving. Not wanting me to collapse.
We sat in the checkpoint, I recognised how tired Rachel looked, having not only crewed for me all day yesterday (Saturday) but then staying up all night pacing me to now, putting up with my one-worded answers, my losing of faith. She is a true hero. I really do think without her I would have just found somewhere to lie down and probably gone hypothermic in a forest.
I felt so emotional, so grateful for everyone who came to help, who sacrificed their own sleep, weekends, lives — to come and support me to fulfil a dream I’d worked so hard for. But a dream I failed to obtain.
I felt everything and nothing. Grateful yet dissapointed. Relieved but in pain. Anguish and elation. Emptiness and fulness. But mostly —
I felt exhausted.
All the other ultramarathons I’ve ran (the whopping 4 of them, 3x 50 milers and 1x 50k) I’ve gone nowhere near the made up “edge”. Nearing the end of them, I’ve not been quite ready for it to end, I was still having fun. Still able to dance with the pain, the discomfort.
I discovered that pain, suffering, discomfort, is all entirely irrelevant when you’re present. When you observe and no longer get lost in the mind’s commentary on how hard this is, how long you have left to go, the sensations, the rest..
But this time — I struggled to dance. I got danced.
The pure exhaustion from the heat, the subsequent effects that had on my feet, what it did to my pace, the time pressure, the pain, the cumulative effect of not eating, the blood loss, the swollen tongue..
I felt I lost all cognitive ability to observe, to sit with, to be present.
The only way of getting through it was to focus on the next checkpoint, which inherently makes it harder, because you’re wishing for it to end.
I couldn’t gain space from this turbulent mind. I clearly had no reserves left. None.
Or maybe I did, I’m sure I did. But in them moments, I could find no way of unveiling them. The lights were on, but nobody was home.
A lifeless, dead-spirited body dragging along 70 miles of the Southern Upland Way, every step from mile 15 was excruciating. I may as well have stabbed knives in my feet for everyone of the 130,000 steps I took. That’s what it felt like.
It was an experience. One I will cherish, remember, and one I have a lot, a lot to take away from.
I said I wanted edges. I wanted that moment of not thinking I could possibly go on. Well, I found it. I got near to it. But unfortunately the time said no. My wearied body no longer able to meet the demands of the cut-off times.
One of the final thoughts I had, I was told I was expressing to Rachel just before we were intercepted by my Mum and Kate was —
“For fuck sake. This means I’m going to have to do it again, so I don’t have to do it again.”
Confusing, but the feeling I had was knowing I couldn’t just leave this here.
Them 70 miles, 25 hours 30 minutes, 130,000 steps, 12,123ft of elevation gain and loss was an endurance feat.
Yes, ultramarathons are clearly a feat of endurance.
But for me they’ve never been about struggling and suffering, I love learning to dance with that pain and still being immersed and absorbed by the beauty around, the mountains, the sky, the birds.
But this time — there was no observable beauty. The lens through my eyes saw nothing but pain. Nothing but darkness. Running on every single breath. Fuelled by fear of not making it.
Depth over Distance. Maybe Ben was right. I didn’t reach the distance, but I fell to some depths. And some more.
Whilst I didn’t make the cut-off in time, I didn’t do what I had planned out to do, I didn’t experience what running 107 miles feels like -
I certainly went to places I’ve never been to before.
I stayed in lows that lasted longer than I thought I could put up with.
I cried more than I ever have before.
I put up with pain longer than I ever thought I could imagine.
I ran for 24 hours, for the first time ever.
I felt what it feels like to not sleep, and keep running, and running, and running.
I felt what it feels like to be so loved, cared for and looked after, continuously.
I felt what it feels like to connect, share and express with other people you don’t even know the names of, but you share a very painful yet intimate moment with.
I felt what it feels like to know there is no other way forward, than to go forward.
I felt what it feels like to fail.
I felt what it feels like to lose entire, control of something you’ve worked so hard for.
I felt what it feels like to experience every, single, emotion, in such a short space of time.
Ultramarathons are beautiful.
They strip you bare, chew you up, spit you out.
For some, their spirit carries them further than they can imagine.
For others, their bodies break.
For others, their mind gives up.
For all — we see deeper, further into the depths of ourself.
No matter the outcome, the experience of pushing, trying, fighting, forcing..
Letting go, accepting, flowing freely..
Takes us where we need to be, always.
You stand on that start line having to forgo all of your expectations and ego’s idea of who you are, what you should be able to do, be, become.
You let go of all, and you let the mountains take you.
I dance with myself, I drunk myself down
Found people to love, left people to drown
I’m not scared to jump, I’m not scared to fall
If there was nowhere to land I wouldn’t be scared at allSometimes I wish for falling, wish for the release
Wish for falling through the air to give me some relief
Because falling’s not the problem, when I’m falling I’m at peace
It’s only when I hit the ground it causes all the grief
The entire GB Ultra’s team, volunteers, marshalls — everyone, are just incredible. So supportive, caring and will do anything you need to get across the finish line. I couldn’t feel more safe and part of a better community than this one. Thank you, endlessly.
Now, it’s time to heal.
Mia Oldroyd,
Personal Trainer & Running Coach.
