No Longer Alone — 7 Valleys Ultra; Running a 70 mile ultramarathon.
On Saturday 30th September, I ran the 7 Valleys Ultra, a 110km (68.2 miles) ultramarathon, up and down 12,000ft of elevation, in the awe-inspiring, wondrous mountains of the Lake District.
I’ve just been writing for an hour. But I’ve just deleted it all, because I know what I really want to write about, more than the bits and bobs of fuelling, pain, the shitty constant rain.. so, here’s a perhaps far too in-depth, personal case of oversharing.
Here is my journey of running for 20 hours and 23 minutes, and what it’s taught me about my own inability to love, be loved and allow the purpose of human connection; to help eachother.
In the hour preceding the start, 5am, driving through dark empty roads, with the glow of the full moon lighting up the sky — a phrase came into my mind, and it stayed with me for the first couple of hours.
“Disciplined mind”
Weird. Because, I’ve sort of fallen out with discipline. You see, we’ve had a bit of a toxic, conditional-love relationship. Discipline for me was a way of being a good person. Me being disciplined, doing hard things, sticking to schedules, routines, achieving lots — was a way to prove myself, to myself.
It was little to do about creating a life congruent with what’s important to me. It was little to do with truly listening to my needs and honouring where I’m at. It was a violent, aggressive form of control, although — always commended by society and others. Exhausting yourself into the ground is apparently a good thing.
Anyway — today is about that fine, uncomfortable, yet beautiful dance of the inner monologue. Not fighting nor succumbing to it. But being wholly attentitive to the inner-knowing of what to do. Surrendering the desire to think; about anything.
Discplined Mind. Not meaning to control my thoughts, because I can’t. Not meaning to control my feelings, because I can’t. Not meaning to control my emotions, because I can’t. But meaning to do what I need to do; regardless of how I feel or what I think.
Don’t want to eat? Eat.
Don’t want to stop and sort my feet out? Stop.
Don’t want to slow down because I’m scared of not making it? Slow down.
Want to indulge the image of finally finishing to give me some relief? Don’t.
Disciplined Mind.
Discpline to me, no longer means that self-violent, aggressive I Hate My Life routine. It means to get closer, and closer to following that desire and knowing that is pouring out my heart, not my head.
6am, we started. A bag bursting full, but legs alike to a dog not walked in days — I was so ready.
Legs moving forward, headtorches beaming and a silence permeating the atmosphere. No one ever really talks this early on. But the silence tends to bring an unspoken language of everyone finding sanctuary within themselves, wrestling the idea that this is us now. For a long, long time. And I, we, none of us — have any idea what is about to happen.
I didn’t bother putting my headtorch on, I was worried about it losing battery for the night section. So I closely kept to the pack, following in the shining light of others.
Little did I realise, this would be a beautiful parallel of my experience;
No longer relying on my exhausted, dimming light.
This did, however, prove sometimes problematic, as I stumbled over street roots, potholes and fell into puddles. But I’d committed now.
An hour in, the rising sun beaming over the horizon, the birds making that beautiful bird noise and a pink-orange hue spreading across the sky, with the sharp, craggy mountains ominously standing tall at every angle. So. Beautiful.
I got chatting with a couple of different people in the first few hours, making the time fly-by, and finding the ever so satisfying feeling of falling into a rhythm that’s not solely reliant on your own will. But a rhythm that goes beyond your will, but is drawn on by the accompanying legs and spirit.
I relaxed a whole lot more.
8 miles in, first checkpoint reached. Greeted by the luxury of a real toilet, NOT a bush, wow! I also discovered, how weird it feels to wash your hands mid ultra. This phenomenon got progressively weirder as time went on. You’re out in the wild, covered in mud, sticky gels, sweat, chafing, salt, fatigue, likely the odd bit of sheep poo — and you wash your hands in a sink after using the toilet? I don’t know why I found this so weird, but I did.
I was feeling bloody great. My body wasn’t knackered. It felt like the training had been perfect, and more importantly, the last 10 days of gradual tapering, a week of napping, eating more carbs and actually RELAXING, did something. Every step taken felt like I was scratching an itch, yearning for more steps, more openings, it felt so good.
We began climbing up the first climb, up to 759 metres, up to Esk Hause. A train of humans moving upwards, filling the empty air with laughter and chats, it felt good. My legs felt great (did I mention?). I kept a steady pace, dipping in and out of conversation whilst being in total awe at the clear view of the mountains far, far away.
We finally reached the top, I put my poles away and was filled with excitement about running downhill. I love running downhill. Especially on jagged, uenven terrain. The conscious letting go and the propelling of gravity, added with the slight euphoria from the realisation of every step that you’ve not yet broken your ankle, I bloody love it. It is without exaggeration, my favourite feeling ever, ever. An actual braingasm.
I ended up passing quite a lot of people, which brought the slight concern of — Am I going to fast? But, it felt easy and comfortable, and most of all — I was having a great, great time. There was a guy in front of me, flying ahead, but we seemed to be at a similar pace, so I kept to his feet, focussing on his steps, both of us passing others in plenty.
Nearing the end of the downhill section, a very lovely encouraging walker shouted “Keep going, you’re nearly there!”. I shouted “Thank you!” back, and she reiterated, that we were nearly there. I thanked her again, refraining from mentioning that in fact, we still had roughly another 58 miles to go, and in fact — we were certainly not nearly there.
We reached the bottom, and a few more miles to go of undulating, very rocky and very slippy terrain until the next checkpoint. I caught up to a woman, who I would end up spending a lot of time with, who was going at a great pace. So I kept to her feet.
Crossing over slanted slabs of rock, where no running is possible, a walker asked “How far until you guys are finished?”, we said, “Err, 57 miles or something?”, she laughed. “Wait, really?”, “yeah… haha”. For some reason, I dislike the interaction of people knowing how far I’m going. It makes me feel very uncomfortable when they go WOW. And mainly — I feel like a bit of a nob. But that’s for another day.
We ran into the checkpoint at mile 20. My legs feeling great, mind feeling great. I don’t think I’d had a single thought in the last 4 hours. Just pure flow and rythm. A delight of an experience.
Greeted into the checkpoint by my Mum who was generously crewing for me, and the woman in front, who I now knew as Bev, her friend who was crewing for her too. Coincidentally stood with my Mum.
Experiencing the delight of yet another luxurious toilet, and in I went to indulge some salty potatoes. Yak. Nope, potatoes are not the one today. I inhaled some banana bread, covered my feet in Talc, poured out all the tape that doesn’t stick, out of my socks, slathered my feet in vaseline, wet shoes back on — and off I went.
Heading up another climb, up to Greenup Edge at 600m, covered in jagged rocks, and a path that was basically just a stream. I kept at the feet of Bev, and kept in a silent bubble comforted by the chat of others around me, like listening to a real life podcast, without the ads and pretense.
22 miles in, now in a cloud. And not just a cloud, some very wet rain. Here, We, Go. Everyone nearby stopped, raincoats on. This was the beginning of the end. The rain was forecast to get progressively worse as the day went on, eventually peaking at a storm with 50mph wind gusts through the night. The race started now.
Climbing up a somewhat featureless, steep rock face, constantly slipping. I felt excited for the rain. Prepared. The calming surroundings of a hood, creating a sensory deprived experience, you’re outside, but you’re in. Your breath, your awareness heightens. The noise of the rain, wind, a breath away, but with a calming space.
Reaching the top, I was excited again, for another downhill stretch. Now 24 miles in. After taking the first few steps, I realised however this wasn’t so fun. The ‘path’’ comprised of thoughtless bog, steep rocky drop offs and endlessly slippy loose rock. I slipped many, many times, forever surprised how I wasn’t seriously injured. Taming the desire to run fast, I carefully moved along down.
Feet soaked, 26 miles in, running into Grasmere for the 3rd checkpoint. Arrived, wolfed down a sandwich, did the accidental pour half the bottle of talc on my feet (and subsequently, the floor) routine, and was ready to go again. Stopping for just 5 minutes let my already soaking wet body, now turn into a cold, slightly unenthused vehicle that wasn’t so keen on getting moving again.
I ran, now alone, off for another 7 miles over undulating terrain and inclines, till the next checkpoint at 34 miles. I felt a little tired, but my mind entirely vacant and my legs seemed to easily fall into a smooth rhythm. I just kept running.
At this point, I could feel a slight inclination of a lul. Now on a winding path around Grasmere Lake and Rydal Water, the terrain not so exciting, no other tired yet inspired legs to follow, and the rain coming down pretty heavy. I did however notice a slight gap mentally — of, ok, I can either descend into a low patch here.. or I can notice when I’m thinking and just come back, be curious to the sensations and stories of “tiredness”, and watch them dissolve.
I then saw a runner ahead, and made it my duty to get near to him. Ending up running alongside him, and going against all the grain’s in my body — to make conversation. The words “disciplined mind” had slipped away, and I began to wake up to the discomfort I feel about letting people help me. About letting people make the experience easier, more fun, more joyous.
Because people always leave. So we can’t rely on them. So it’s best to avoid, figure it out on my own. And then, well — you don’t get hurt.
I love people. I love deep connections, shared experiences and relationships with people. The suppression of the urge to interact with others is rarely to do with not wanting to engage with others, being an introvert, or being anti-social, it lies in the fear of relying on people. Because people always leave. So you have to learn to do and cope, entirely on your own. It’s cheating if life is made easier with people.
These are all inner voices, monologues, beliefs, fears that I’ve never seen so clearly before. Recognising the discomfort and fear, I chatted with the very nice guy I caught up with, encouraging eachother to run and keep a decent speed, all the way into the next checkpoint. I touch on this more deeply at the end.
34 miles in, I still felt great. I had a small cup of mushroom soup, that was a little to mushroomy, and more so — thick. The warm mushroomy thickness slithering down my throat wasn’t so pleasant, but I got it down, appreciating some salt. It was now around 3pm, and it was absolutely hammering it down. The sort of rain that going outside to put the bins out, you get absolutely drenched.
Due to the incoming storm, there had been a slight route change. Avoiding the summit of High Street, at 828m, and instead diverting the other way, and heading up Scandale Pass, at 524m. I’m not a confident navigator, despite knowing how to read a map and having a pretty solid sense of direction. The marshall insisted it’s very obvious, as they had put way markers out, and it’s impossible to miss — “nobody has made a mistake”, he said. “Well I might be the first”, I said. He insisted I would be fine.
After a mental game of tennis, I decide to put my waterproof trousers on, and headed off. As I was leaving, I saw Bev (the awesome woman I’d been following the feet of near the start) getting some food from Gill, her friend crewing for her, YES. I thought — I am sticking with her. I told her I was staying with her, not really giving her much choice (sorry Bev), and off we went together into the pouring rain and moody sky.
Having felt like I was on the borderline of hypothermia, I was now boiling hot. I knew I would regret wearing my waterproof trousers. I hate trousers. Especially warm ones. I told Bev to keep on going, and not to worry about me — and stopped to sort out the furnace that was building up inside my body.
I sorted myself out, and headed up the gradual climb up to Scandale Pass, alone, hoping the navigation would be easy. The marshall was right, there were way markers everywhere, so it was fine. The long 5 mile path winding up, was basically just a stream of water. My now freshly changed dry socks, soaking wet.
My enthusiasm was dipping, and my body began to feel tired. The first proper low. I observed my mind beginning to spin, uh oh, I’ve got a long way to go, I’m probably going to be on my own till the end now, what if I lose it mentally, I’m tired.. It was so blaringly obvious that it was just a low, so I chose not to engage in the unhelpful thinking, and just kept moving forwards.
I spotted Bev with another runner up ahead, and made it my mission to catch them up. Only, they were going a little faster than me, and I was in a lul. But the comfort of distant voices, in this very desolate, stormy valley, was enough of a pull to just keep moving.
I soon had them within a few metres in front, and decided to stick with them. However, as we began a more steep climb, my pace wasn’t as strong as theirs, and I could feel myself pushing a bit beyond the point of a good idea.. so I slowed down, took a breath, and remembered I will be ok if they go ahead.
The climb was steep, the rain fierce and the wind becoming progressively stronger as we got higher. Food. I need food. I shoved some more banana bread in my face (Sade — you are a legend!), had some crisps (although the majority of them ended up on the floor) and soon felt better.
We eventually reached the top of the climb, and the view opened up as well as a visible path going downhill. So excited for another downhill, I eagerly ran, until about 10 metres, realised the entire 500m downhill, was all jagged rock sticking out of slippy mud and grass, with sections so steep that poles were imperative.
Running was off the cards, after 2 falls already showing me it’s far too slippy, so I took it steady, and expended a lot of energy in trying not to fall. I can’t express how slippy and exhausting it was. But I was determined to keep Bev and the guy she was running with in my sights, knowing in 2 hours, darkness was coming and so was going up high in the worsening storm.
We eventually reached more flat terrain, winding through up to the 44 mile checkpoint at The Filter House, one of the coolest yet weirdest place I’ve ever seen. Me, Bev and “the guy” now known as, Kieran, although I thought he was called Chris and Bev thought he was called Alex, kept each other going, running when we didn’t want to.
We arrived at the checkpoint, absolutely soaked to the bone. This weird little house, up high, basically in the middle of a valley/mountain, with 2 caravans inside it. The volunteers at the checkpoint were awesome, and hilarious. Keeping our spirits high.
44 miles in, I was feeling good. We were really into the meat of the race now, especially with the darkness and the worse weather looming and with 44 miles and a lot of climbing already in the legs. But by far I felt the best I ever have at this distance.
One of the absolute BEST things about this event, was the abundance of GRAB BAG Walkers Ready Salted crisps, wow. Just amazing. At this checkpoint I wolfed down 1/3 of a pizza I’d packaged into some tinfoil (that was now very wet), so wet pizza, alongside 2 packs of the most beautiful tasting crisps. So wonderfully salty and crunchy. I’ve never had as good of an appetite as I did at this checkpoint. I felt I could’ve eaten the contents of the checkpoint; caravans and volunteers included.
Whilst we were eating and layering up, we were also incredibly curious — how on earth did they get these caravans here? The volunteers had no idea, but found it very funny that this was our primary concern. I also remember someone made Bev a cup of tea, and she told him it was a 5/10. I found this hilarious.
There were also no doors in this giant house-not-a-house more like a garage with caravans, and it certainly wasn’t warm. The GORTEX proving a lie, I was soaking wet and now getting really cold, and was a little concerned about how cold it was getting to be during the night, when we’re higher up, more exposed and in the storm (oh, and obviously no sun). Anyway. Layered up, and off we went.
I was a little worried about my inability to keep up with them, as they were going at a pretty decent pace, but every step, I realised — I can absolutely do this.
If I was on my own, I for sure would’ve walked more and convinced myself I was just too tired. It was a really cool thing to see — again, being carried by the brightness of others, pulled to a version of yourself you wouldn’t have otherwise seen.
There was still this lingering sense of discomfort of being with others, of relying on others, of what if I get left behind? I kept just wanting to say, I couldn’t stay with them, and tell them to carry on. On the surface, it felt a whole lot safer to be on my own, no needing to meet other people’s expectations, to let anyone down, or to be let down by anyone. But on a deeper level, it didn’t. I knew I needed, and more so — wanted to stay with them both. And so I did. I am so glad of this.
We kept running, and kept running. I made a mistake, being so focussed on moving forward and having had a right feast at the last checkpoint, I barely ate or drank for 2 hours. I would later experience discomfort from this.
We kept trucking on, darkness came, more rain came, and checkpoint 6 was within sight. It was 19:44, 13 hours and 45 minutes and 50 miles in. We entered a very inviting checkpoint, with a log burner burning away, and 2 very beautiful Corgi’s — but the best was yet to come.
“Pasta, or soup?” The very kind volunteer asked me. I asked for soup, before quickly saying no, sorry, I don’t want soup. The very specific ultra palete was present. And no to pasta too. Until I sat down to sort my bag out, charge my watch and saw Bev tucking into a warm pot of Pasta. Damn. I really need to eat something proper.
“Sorry. Please can I have pasta?”. I asked. The lovely lady said yes, and told me the options were between Mexican or Indian flavoured pasta. Confused. Why? Pasta? Mexican Pasta? Indian Pasta? What? Secondly, both Mexican and Indian don’t seem to be the most appealing of spices when dealing with a stomach that’s running, especially one that’s been running for almost 14 hours. I quickly said, sorry, don’t worry, I won’t have any.
Before again, changing my mind. I’M SORRY PLEASE CAN I HAVE PASTA. Everyone now laughing at my indecisiveness, and the very kind and patient lady gave me a Mexican Pasta Pot. I inhaled it, before realising I needed to let the pasta sit. Oops. I’d just eaten very hard pasta. In a very short space of time. With Mexican spices. I hope my stomach is going to be ok.
I’d entirely thrown away the idea of “don’t try anything new on race day” today, and today was actually the day of trying everything I’ve never tried before. It’s good to go against the grain.
Me and Bev kept exclaiming, just how brilliant this pasta was. The checkpoint volunteers kept laughing, and letting us know that it only tastes good because we’ve ran and we’re soaking wet and tired, and that if we got served it in a restaurant, we’d probably speak to the manager. But still, it was so GOOD.
What an offense to the Italians.
This checkpoint was such a joyous place, awesome 10/10 pasta, a warm log burner, friendly people.. but. awaiting outside was a fierce wind, heavy rain, darkness and a 700m climb up to Sticks Pass. Leaving this checkpoint was met with feelings of, wow — my bones are cold. This was the bit I really wasn’t looking forward to.
We’d also picked up another guy, Lee, who joined our team. We made a pact to finish together. This commitment was uncomfortable. Given my entire complex, but I gave into the discomfort and felt warmed by the idea of being carried through by some amazing people who I’d already shared many highs and lows with.
We began climbing, and I was really struggling. My pace on the climbs was a whole lot slower than the others, and the fear of being alone on this mountain in this wind and rain in the dark, was growing.
I kept pushing and pushing, trying to stay near the front to give me some wiggle room to slow down, until a very peculiar, and new feeling arose. A jelly-like lightness filled my body, my head went airy, and my hands started shaking. I felt weak to the bone, and it’s the closest, in my life, I’ve felt to fainting. I kept moving, I cannot lose these people.
The light of my headtorch being disrupted by the ever-pouring rain. I had no idea what was going on. I’d just eaten, I surely can’t be going hypoglycaemic? I had thick gloves on, I was absolutely boiling. I knew I needed to take my gloves off, and just grab a gel or something. But I felt so weak I couldn’t even do that.
What I really needed to do was announce I wasn’t feeling great, but me being me, I didn’t, pretended to be fine and kept moving probably far too fast for my current state. I began to feel worse and worse, with a mild nausea now permeating my body. I began to vear off the track, missing a turn, before being shouted by one of our team I was going the wrong way. I was losing all my focus.
Wobbling over these loose rocks in the dark, near the edge, acknowledging this feeling has not passed and that I really need to muster up the strength and courage to stop, take my gloves off and get some food out. I did. The fear of being left alone in the dark was heavy, but if I didn’t stop I’m pretty certain I was about to collapse over the edge.
I took my gloves off, managed to grab a brownie (thank you again, Sade, they were AWESOME) and reluctantly ate it whilst trying not to choke on my heavy breath from my burning lungs and aching legs climbing up.
Relived I’d eaten something, but worried that this feeling wouldn’t leave, I kept moving on, trying to keep Kieran’s feet in my sight. The climb was never ending, and my body was bloody tired. Thankfully, the airy weakness was leaving, making me realise I need to eat more. I think the accidental 2 hour gap with no food was the culprit.
The horizon of the summit was visible, lit by the moon and a layer of thick clouds, despite it being pitch-black. We eventually made it, and some marshalls were at the top, in a tent. They must have been absolutely freezing. I was so relieved to be at the top. That was the last big climb, and the wind wasn’t actually that bad. I also survived my first ever attack of hypoglycaemia.
Well — the marshall at the top debriefed us on the section next going back down, that was pretty treacherous, and by treacherous, he meant there were winds that blew him off his feet coming up and that we needed to be really careful. Apparently they didn’t last long, but they were very, very strong.
And secondly, it is incredibly steep and there isn’t really a path, but the path consists of incredibly slippy mud and grass, that is very steep. We were told again, we really need to be careful.
So, off we went. I kept Bev’s feet in front of me. The gale-force wind was rather terrifying, and the ground certaintly wasn’t runnable, I must’ve slipped 5 times. After about a minute of going down, my left knee became excruciatingly painful with every step. Uh oh. I’ve never had a problem with my knee..
Presuming it would just be a random pain and it would go soon, I kept going down, tentatively using my poles to stop myself slipping (which worked 50% of the time). The wind was so strong and loud, there was no time for stopping and complaining about my knee. So I winced on, each step becoming more painful. I just need to get down.
It was never ending. So slippy, so scary, such fierce winds. I didn’t worry much about my knee, as I presumed it would just sort itself out, I’ve never ever struggled with my knees before. Anyway, what felt like 2 hours later, we finally reached the bottom. I was exhausted. An accumulation of trying not to get blown off the edge by the wind, resisting slipping as much as possible, as well as experiencing intense pain. We got to a flat bit, and ran.
Well — I realised I now also can’t run. It was super painful. But my Mum and Bev’s friend were round the corner with food and layers in their warm cars. I kept moving, but was lagging behind. My knee becoming an increasing problem, and my legs now utterly exhausted.
It was 10pm. We were 16 hours in. Despite my knee, and the less than ideal conditions, I was still in good spirits. Now the last climb was done, we only had 14 miles left. The worst bit was over. It was now a somewhat easy, gentle, undulating 14 miles till the finish, and we were hours and hours away from the cut off time — so there really was no rush. I can relax.
I inhaled another mushy, very wet avocado and humous sandwich, filled my bag up with Fruitella sweets and headed off. Still in good spirits, despite feeling an overlay of tiredness, the deep bone-ache in my legs, and the rest.
I was really struggling to run though, and also didn’t want to do myself any damage. I kept saying to Lee, who was behind me, that he can go in front and they can all go ahead as I’m pretty slow, but he wouldn’t let me. He also needed a nice gentle pace, he said. The growing guilt of holding someone up soon left, as I realised — we’re all helping each other.
The undulating, tree-rooted, rocky terrain overlayed with hanging trees, spiky bushes, brambles, felt like it went on for a long time. The darkness pervading my mind ever so slightly, with the dread of the impending downhills, that seemed endless, and that I couldn't move down without excruciating pain.
We eventually came to a set of some very, very boggy fields, slipping, sliding and adding to the pond that was already present in my shoes. They seemed to go on for a very, very long time.
But — this language, the extremities of the terrain, weather, conditions — all makes it sound like I was having an awful time. I genuinely was feeling so relaxed, content and genuinely had no desire for it to be over, or to be anywhere else. Which is always what really, really confuses me. Let’s frame this —
I’ve just ran 58 miles. I’ve been going for 17 hours. I’m soaked wet through to the bone. My feet have been soaking wet for, the entire, 17 hours. My left knee, is in 9/10 excruciating pain with every step, to the point where weight bearing and bending my knee is becoming nigh on impossible. It’s 11pm, it’s dark, it’s boggy, I’m slipping everywhere. The wind is loud and vicious. The rain is still, pouring down. My legs hurt. I’m tired.
But — there is not a glimpse of suffering, and hasn’t been the entire time. Nor is there a satisfaction from the extreme terrain, there isn’t pleasure in the pain, there is just nothing. Absolutely, nothing.
My mind is entirely absent of dialogue, thought, story. Entirely open to all feelings, sensations, experiences without clinging on to them. I’m in a rhythm, with a clear intention, and there’s no resistance or fighting.
What is this? Pure exhaustion? Contentment? Presence? Stupidity? Survival mode? Flow?
People, who have never experienced running an ultramarathon, often can’t comprehend how you suffer for so long. They think you must be a sadist, masochist, a little bit ‘tapped’ — they think you must love pain. You must love suffering. Maybe some people do, but me? I don’t particularly enjoy pain. I definitely don’t enjoy suffering. I don’t dance at the sight of discomfort. I’m a human. I’m legitimately programmed to refrain from experiencing such.
Like, you run a 5k, fast. Fuck me sideways — that HURTS. That’s awful. It’s painful. Imagine doing that for another 105k? No thanks. Because you don’t. You can’t. That’s not what ultrarunning is.
Sure — you can suffer, and you likely do at some point, when you’ve lost the flow, rhythm, when you’re entirely depleted of food, you’re borderline hyponatraemic, your feet are shredded to bits, blisters creating excruciating pain, you’re mentally exhausted, now incredibly sleep deprived, emotional — ok, now you’re more likely to enter that suffering state. That was me, 4 months ago, when my attempt at running 100 miles, went rather awfully bad. The whole 25 hours, I was suffering and in endless amounts of pain, and there was no distance from the experience.
It’s a fine line, an edge in fact. Cross that line ever so slightly, and well — you’re now fucked. But teeter on the brink, dance on the line, have a party on the edge— flow. The beautiful zone of uncomfortable but doable.
But there are endless variables that need to allign. Most of these, are beyond your control. It’s a constant dance of surrendering all of your intense need to control your experience, whilst simultaneously, having that “disciplined mind” to not let your autonomy slip away.
It’s like dancing with the universe; working together in harmony, surrendering and doing — a paradoxical, incomprehensible experience.
My intention for this ultra — was to look after myself. Which also meant, to not cling onto this fixed idea that I need to feel “good”. Or that I need to experience immense joy, euphoria. All of that is beyond me, and it doesn’t matter. I just need to be.
My intention was to get to the end, without making the end the goal. Not making the moment better than this moment. Moment. Funny word.
And it can all crash and burn at any point. And you too — can regain your autonomy in the midst of the burning. To exist in the face of suffering and death, but somehow still, keep, singing (A lyric from Free, By Florence and The Machine).
The “flow” or contentment within the experience is very little to do with the external variables. The pain. The terrain. The weather. The physical moving parts of existence. It’s to do with letting go of the control of that. Letting it be, not forcing, fixing, changing — keeping your intention and attention on right now, all that you need to do, is move, eat and take care.
And soon? Distance is created. Space for breathing. Despite immense discomfort and pain.
Yet even that doesn’t explain it. Because I don’t bloody understand it myself. My attempt to run 100 miles, the conditions were horrific, I for sure had heatstroke and hyponatremia, I couldn’t eat, my feet were shredded to the bone, blistered raw, I was on my period. 70 miles in, I just couldn't continue, I didn’t make it in time to the checkpoint, because physically I was destroyed, but mentally — I’d lost all hope and autonomy.
I was being driven by the darkest of emotions, ideas. Hope isn’t something you want to lose. But it’s also not something you want to rely on.
Are we in control of creating that space? I’m not even so sure.
But — regardless, the ease I experienced in this 110km, was just, actually, mind blowing.
Anyway. Let’s carry on shall we.
We kept trudging through these boggy fields. More gates, more fields, more gates, more fields. The flat terrain, although endlessly wet and slippy, was a generous gift to my knee. The pain subsided, and I could move a little faster. Until, the flat ended.
We eventually made it to the 60 mile checkpoint at Threlkeld. 8 miles to go. Stumbled in, greeted by the ever so joyous volunteers, who were awake at this ridiculous hour to help some very, very smelly people. I used the toilet, again, still having had no wild wee yet and again, experienced the weird i’m washing my hands moment.
My awesome appetite had gone, but I knew I needed to keep eating, even with only 8 miles left. So I did, as you do. Bev offered me one of her coffee’s, I declined, declaring a little to loudly that it’ll probably make me shit myself. Which, wasn’t really a desire of mine. I don’t think hers, either.
We were also both informed, how bad we smelt. Not the best advert for Wild deodorant. But I’m not sure it’s designed for 18 hours of vigorous exercise in the pouring rain and bog.
Anyway. Bags on. Poles in hands. In our little team of 4, off we headed.
We had a 4 mile ish 400m climb up, followed by a 4 mile descent straight into the finish.
This, I was ridiculously excited for before the run. I’d even made a playlist, that I was going to treat myself to the second I’d reached the top. I’d visualised running down this steep, rocky terrain, in the darkness, alone, with some of my favourite music, celebrating the fact I’ve nearly finished. Topped off with a sprint finish, the aching, hurting legs screaming, but the legend within leaping with every step.
Well. I could barely walk, because of my knee. Let alone run. So instead of being excited, I was beginning to dread this 400m downhill section. When you have a knee that can’t bear your weight and can’t bend, going downhill on loose, jagged, slippy terrain after having ran 64 miles isn’t ideal, and fun probably isn’t the word. Definitely, isn’t the word.
We began climbing, and oh, no. My knee now couldn’t tolerate going uphill, either. Or flat. So I buckled in, and accepted the idea that this is going to be a little uncomfortable.
There wasn’t really anywhere accessible to drop out, given we were up in the mountains somewhere, except the finish. And if I’m entirely honest, dropping out wasn’t really an idea ever, in my mind. There was no decision not to drop out, there was just no idea that it was even a thing.
We trudged on, the 4 of us still together. Bev decided, it would be a good idea to play a game. Eye Spy, she suggested. Now, in the pitch black darkness, on a rather desolate path winding up. There isn’t much to see. I also must admit, my enthusiasm for playing any game, was about a -5/10. Yes, that says minus 5. I was about to declare that I’m not playing, sorry. But couldn’t help myself when she said “G”.
GRASS!
Got it.
Ok, sooo.
“B”
Bracken.
“F”
Floor…
Ok, game is now officially over. Onwards we went, headlights lighting up the fading path, heavy breath and thoughts filling the air. The only way was forward. There was no point arguing with it. Pain is, was there. But it is, what it is.
The pain eventually peaked, to a point where I decided I needed to put some music on. Although distraction is the death of art, sometimes you don’t have to make art. Purple Rain blaring in one ear, the sound of distant chatter in the next.
Well, now everything felt clunky and hard. I could hear the familiar whisper of suffering, and decided the silence and rhythm of our feet, the odd conversation, the noise of the rain on my hood, was far more helpful than some emotionally charged music that makes me want to cry.
Emotions can help and drive us, but they’re a finite and exhausting resource. Disciplined Mind, to me, was about not giving in to that inviting, comforting feeling of anguish. Although temporarily it provides a boost, the fumes soon run wild, and with a subsequent crash to come. Thinking is addictive. Addictions aren’t good for my wellbeing.
The rain continued on, the never ending path did to — and the terrain became more scrambly and jagged. 66 miles. 2 miles to go.
Getting myself down with this new friend in my knee, basically went like —
Agggghhhhhhhh (through gritted teeth).
Oooo. Agghhh. Arrrrrrrr.
Big exhale.
Repeat.
Mile 67, a very lovely guy called Andy caught us up, and somehow knew my name. He was very friendly and chatty, but unfortunately, I was absolutely in no mood to talk to anyone.
The second he arrived, my pinky toe exploded with an excruciatingly painful blister (my first blister, which makes this a huge personal record), making every step now feel like I was jumping on the edges of a steak knife.
But, the art of just getting on with it, is becoming a frequent experience — and so on I went. Internalising the pain, trying to maintain some social ability to not come across as a dick. Sorry Andy, but I don’t think I took in anything you said.
I attempted to run (not away from this man), and I physically, couldn’t. My knee had gone into a sheltered protection, and we’d for sure fallen out. It just wouldn’t move my leg properly. So imagine a pirate, or an injured squirrel, that’s more like it.
Back to walking with my crutches, I mean poles. The finish line eventually became in sight. The rain was wet. Like, properly wet. My face dripping, in rain. Everything wet. Wow, it was so wet. It was 02:28am.
“Come on, let’s run”, I said to our little team. They began to run, and I realised, again, for about the 56th time, oh, I can’t. But I mustered up some inner Forrest Gump, bypassed all the pain (sorry body, I won’t ever neglect you like that again), and ran over the finish, before suddenly limping again.
I hugged everyone, said thanks, got the mandatory photo, and begin to stumble across to my Mum’s car, ready to go home.
But before that, I needed the toilet. I hobbled towards the porta-loo, opened the door to a not so luxurious smell, and collapsed onto the toilet. Trying to stand up again, was a different matter. After 3 attempts, all which consisted of me tipping back down and my mind conjuring images of me falling down the toilet and being stuck forever, I finally broke free and left my least favourite place I’d visited all day.
Me & my Mum got in the car, sat down, and made our way home. My Mum dropped me home, it was now 5am. I felt like I was on another universe. Neither of us having slept, bar my 10 minutes of a head bobbing nap in the car. I can’t express or articulate how incapacitated I was.
I opened my front door, fell inside, and literally — crawled up the stairs, grabbing onto the banister for dear life, and fell into bed. Shivering like terrorised cat, a deep-ache permeating my body and my feet throbbing — my bed felt like warm chocolate ice-cream. I fell asleep to the constant flashbacks of running, and the trail ahead of me, and woke up 2 hours later, wide awake and somewhat confused.
I’d still not had dinner. But it was 7am. So I was very confused. I felt an injustice (and btw — still do) that I’d just ran 70 miles and not had dinner. But, there was a bigger problem — I’d still not had a shower.
I didn’t fall back asleep, and did my best attempt at getting up, showering, and feeding myself some toast, which I ate out of a frying pan.
Then some lovely friends came over to assist me, Rachel bringing me some food alongside a card, titled “Shite”, my friend Ashley basically holding my hand around Tesco, of which getting 4 items took us approximately 20 minutes, before delivering me to another friend, Alice, who was going to take the shift.
I spent the rest of the day, literally, staring into space.
Ok — now time to get uncomfortable.
Every ultramarathon I’ve done, up until attempting Scotland 100 (GB Ultra’s), in June, hasn’t really been that hard. I’m not saying that to sound like a nob, either. I mean, who wants to sound like a nob. But anyway —
What I mean is, it’s been hard, there’s been lots of discomfort, but I’d never broken. I’d never gotten to the point of thinking I can’t do this. I’d never broken down. It’d been hard, yes, but I did it, and sort of had fun. I’d always expected it to be way worse, harder, and for me to have to dig up some childhood trauma and emotion to get myself through it. With this, there was a weird sense of dissatisfcation — that I didn’t find it impossible. That I could do it. That I didn’t find that “edge” where I can’t.
“Growth is at the edge of your comfort zone”, makes me feel the same as “Live, laugh, love” does. Because yes, obviously.
But — there is an angle at which trauma can be masked with growth.
For me, running ultramarathons has always been a solo thing, my thing. I enjoy the shared experience and chatting with people, but it feels like cheating. It’s not as hard, I don’t experience as much inner conflict, it’s way smoother and way more fun. But — that’s cheating. And it’s not the point. I need to find my edge, the edges.
In my early teens, I learnt that people leave. Even those that promise they won’t. Even those that aren’t supposed to ever, ever leave. I learnt that love ends. Even the love that is told never can.
I learnt that people hurt you, even those that never should. I learnt that people can hurt you again, and again, and again. I learnt the deep shame that comes from allowing yourself to get hurt, again, and again. The endless guilt that arises from yearning, seeking and craving for someone’s love. The love you want so badly, even you know it’s going to break you apart.
I learnt that even if people come back, they leave again. And even if they come back again, they leave, again. I learnt that trust means nothing. That words have no meaning. That there are no safe spaces, places. I learnt that no matter how much you beg, cry, scream — you can’t be enough for someone.
On my 15th birthday, sat in my room, alone, I ate a bowl of cornflakes for dinner. Feeling intense anguish and grief for the absence of presence, the lack of what used to be, I concluded that fun doesn’t need to exist. I concluded happiness, fun, love — is all just painful. If I don’t want it, then it’s ok. I can’t be let down when it doesn’t happen.
In the empty absence — I eventually learnt that being alone is the safest place, even though it wasn’t a choice. I learnt that any reliance, dependence, support, help, gain — from anyone, was a risk. It brought me terror. It made me seek fierce independence, because the opposite was too terrifying.
And soon, the intense sorrow, trauma and loss of self — disguises itself as wisdom. It disguises itself as being a young, strong independent woman. It disguises itself as being a hard worker, an over-achiever, resilient, adaptable, an inspiration to other people.
And so through that, you shut yourself off. You deny your emotions. You lock away that hurt, pained, broken child, and too — you lock away intimacy. You lock away the opportunity to connect with others, to relate with others. You resist the ability for anybody to ever love you, help you, support you.
You learn how to be alone in the presence of other people. Even if it feels bad, disconnecting, shallow. At least you don’t get hurt. At least nobody can ever take anything from you.
I was alone, a lot. I hated every second of it. But that creeping feeling of knowing, well — this is life, lead to the pursuit of learning how to be ok, and content, alone.
And so, I learnt to do hard things, alone. I learnt how to live alone. I learnt how to be alone with my thoughts. I learnt how to figure out; life, on my own. Ultrarunning, was a vehicle for this — it’s just you, nature and your thoughts. Alone but entirely connected. Safe in the hands of the universe.
Ultrarunning was my first ever glimpse into truly feeling connected, and allowing myself to rest — a place where fear, separation and judgement didn’t exist. Nature, the mountains, my feet — I finally found a safe space that nobody could take.
But what ultrarunning, this — in particular, ultramarathon brought me to realise — beyond just how great people and human connection is, but how much I still resist it. How much I still keep it at arms reach. Along with that subtle little driving force of needing to take myself to extremes, so I can prove to myself, that I can be ok experiencing hard things alone, incessantly trying to reassure that terrified child.
Somewhere in my mind, that makes me feel safe.
Through a lot of inner work, self-introspection, meditation, professional help and ridiculously good humans around me — I’m coming to realise, that people make life infinitely better.
And that I don’t need to figure it out on my own. I don’t need to eat dinner on my own staring into the wall because I need to get used to it. I don’t need to compulsively achieve, do, work to be loveable, good enough.
I’m grateful for everything I’ve experienced. I’m grateful for having now successfully completed the course of “learn to be alone”. But I can firmly say, I’m ready to graduate. With an anchored-ness within, and a recognition of all the flying fear, arising trauma and panic of having fun, connection, intimacy, love —I’m ready to exist in that discomfort.
Running for 70 miles, with barely anytime on my own — was a beautiful, smooth experience. It has entirely taught me, that we humans aren’t meant to be alone.
Whilst it’s certainly not a good idea to depend your sense of being, happiness and life on someone, or something else — it doesn’t mean it can’t be used, appreciated and enjoyed.
Solitude is important. Aloneness is important. But we humans are also here to hold eachother’s hands. To give each other the gift of our presence and to help each-other recognise the vastness that exists beyond the confines of our lonely thoughts.
Any extreme isn’t so great. Dependence or absolute withdrawal; just as bonking (no, not sex) from a complete lack of food, vs throwing up your insides from overeating on gels, isn’t so great either.
You want a good healthy dose, enough to keep you going, but not so much you explode, and not so little you faint.
The same goes with life — a healthy dose.
But a healthy dose can only be achieved when we come face to face with our inner voice, beliefs, thoughts. When we can truly see what’s driving us to do things, what’s creating the imbalance, and what’s making us seek that which we don’t really want.
We’ll always do weird things, we’re humans. But let’s dance in that fact, and recognise it’s ok, we’re all a little fucked up, and that’s why we’re so great.
This was a beautiful event. The people, the mountains, the landscape, the pain, the bogs, the cold. Everything.
Everything is ok when you let it in.
But — it’s now time for a rest. Like, a proper rest. A literal wintering is going to occur.
Oh, and it was so good, I’ve booked on for the 180km next year. 110 miles. But hey, we’ve got a year.
For those asking about the Youtube video, it’s coming.. should hopefully be live by the end of the week..
Click here to see my Youtube (and hopefully the documentary)
