Lots of people are runners, I’m a runner and runners often enter races and 10k’s and marathons, just for fun mostly. We like a challenge. We run for health and fitness, we run for charity, we run for our sanity and to get away from the people we love very much, but who also drive us bat shit crazy nonetheless. Running is great.
Sometimes though we decide to embark on a run so extreme, so fucking nonsensical that we and those around us question our mental state.
We decide to run An Ultra Marathon.
Now an Ultra Marathon is a fucking long run. By definition it is anything over the marathon distance of 26.2 miles, so technically you can run 26.3 miles and call yourself An Ultra Runner. But back in November 2019 I decided that 26.3 miles, or even something knocking 30 just wasn’t far enough, so I signed myself up for a 70 mile run which was due to take place in June 2020. 70 miles. Along a wall in Northern England, from Carlisle to Newcastle. It’s catchily named The Wall. Hadrian’s in case you’re wondering. I thought fuck it, that’ll be fun.
Why? To this day I can’t really answer that question but maybe once I’ve finished this article I’ll have some answers.
The Training Plan
So I signed up; a friend of mine decided that she was mental enough to join me and we started on a rough training plan. It wasn’t very technical, I run regularly anyway so I just figured I’d run a bit further every week and take it from there, and that’s what I did. During the winter of 2019 and the first few months of 2020 I’d built myself up to a comfortable 20 miles, my fuelling was on point, proper food, not jizzy gels, and with about 16 weeks to go until the big day I was about to increase it gradually to around the 30 mile mark with weekend back to back long runs. That’s apparently the best way to crack the training, back to back long runs but don’t try and get up to the actual distance in one go. Run on tired legs, build up strength and stamina, rest and repeat. I was all over it.
And then, The Plague hit. 23rd March 2020 and the world went into lockdown. My job meant that I went from running every day to sitting at a laptop in my dining room for anything up to 20 hours a day in back to back emergency response meetings trying to make sure that the good people of Bedfordshire could access food, medicine and hospital care. It was fucking horrendous. I put on 17lbs in about 12 weeks just from sitting on my arse all day and whilst everyone else was getting out for lovely walks, doing online classes and updating their status with ‘OMG, I’ve lost nearly a stone during lockdown!’, I was sitting there fuming that they’d shut the gyms and I was too knackered to even consider going for a run once my day was done. It was bollocks.
Fast forward to the summer of 2020, a stuttering open the country, shut the country, open it again, please eat out to help out (fuck off, I don’t need encouragement to eat more pizza), I gradually got back to running a bit more frequently and for my sanity they opened the gyms.
Work began to ease off as the world began to return to the ‘new normal’, and during September-March 2020/21 I ran, I ate and I ran some more, one foot in front of the other and slowly, slowly I found my rhythm, pace, mojo and determination once again. The Ultra was officially deferred to June 2021 – me and Jen were fucking doing this.
Jen doesn’t live that far from me, I’m in Bedfordshire, she’s in Bucks so we arranged to meet for a few runs. One of my bright ideas was to run from my house just outside of Bedford to Leighton Buzzard as Jen lives about half way there. 23 miles there and then I’d run part way back and get a lift the rest of the way. It was a grand plan, I knew the route as we regularly drove it, or I cycled it so what could possibly go wrong?
There was a bit of off road, what looked like wide verges for the road running bit, but what you don’t really see from a car or even a bike is the running conditions, not really. The first part of the run was fine, my house, through some lovely country villages and all the way to Woburn. The road to Woburn was a bit hairy, the verges were not as wide as I thought and I had a couple of miles of hopping up and down in order to dodge the cars. It was doable though and I arrived at the country park surrounded by herds of sweeping wildebeest (deer), the view of the Abbey and miles of grassy hills. Lovely. If you know the park at all then after having taken a breath at the top of the hill, I ran down the sweeping slope and into the village which is a lovely collection of antique shops, a champagne bar, a posh hotel and some lovely country pubs. They don’t call Woburn the jewel in Bedfordshire’s crown for nothing. Fucking expensive though.
Jen arrived about 10 minutes later and we set of for the second leg. Within about 3 miles I realised I’d made a massive error of judgement. The verges were so overgrown that hopping up to avoid traffic meant that we got whipped in the face by low hanging branches which had not been cut back. And it wasn’t the odd car we were dodging, it was a heavy stream of traffic, lorries, and it was in a 60. Jen was cheerfully stoic and kept telling me ‘It’ll be fine!’. It wasn’t fine, we nearly died on several occasions. Don’t do it kids, don’t be a dick, research your training routes.
Other training runs included a Nordic walking session as Jen said we needed to know how to use the sticks. We went up and down the one hill Bedfordshire has to offer, used our bums properly, or as the Nordic walking lady put it, ‘engaged our glutes’, and after an hour of that we confidently concluded that we were fucking pros and would ace this race.
I bought some very expensive trainers a couple of months before the run, researched what I needed for my narrow, high arch, slightly over pronating feet which was apparently a lovely pair of Hoka One Cliftons. I bought the shoes, they were beautiful and orange and bouncy. Fuckers ripped my feet to shreds within a week. I had blisters where I’d never had blisters before, I was in agony. So I took myself off to Runners Need and got a proper gait analysis, feet measured, information put into a tablet, I ran on the running machine and the man watched with an expert eye and at the end of the assessment he announced that the results indicated that I needed a pair of Hoka One Cliftons. Fuck my life. After some wailing and gnashing of teeth we settled on Brooks Glycerin and Jesus Christ, if there was ever a more perfect shoe, this is it. It’s like running on clouds and I love them. I also bought a pair of Ons that he’d put me in just to test my gait, they were incredibly neutral, far too flat for my high arch but so pretty that I decided I needed them for the gym. I got the impression I’d been had by his upsell, but I was in running shoe heaven, so I was more than happy for the clever running man to take my money.
All in all, I got myself up to a couple of 28 mile back to backs which is the furthest I’d ever run and I could officially call myself an Ultra Runner. I tapered well, I ate all the carbs, drank the isotonic drinks, bored the shit out of everyone with my training plans and generally had a lovely time. Did I feel ready and fully trained to take on 70 miles? No, but I was doing it anyway. I bought toe Jonnies. Little rubber Jonnies that you put on your toes to help with blisters. What more could I do? I was prepared.
Race Day
The day of the big race we were up really early, I think we had to be at the start for around 6am, the excitement was building, hundreds of runners queued along the snaking barriers set out for us outside Carlise Castle gates, bacon baps and coffee vans were in abundance, people were bouncing and stretching and it was all building to a fever pitch. I was confident I could win this fucker.
Now our strategy was to power walk the warm up, a couple of miles at least as I suffer dreadfully with the toxic 10 which basically means that I run like dog shit and can’t breathe properly for at least the first 10 minutes or so, and with it being such a long distance we agreed that we could definitely take our time and use the first 20-25 minutes as a warm up so as not to risk injury. So, with our sticks and a decent stride we let all the other people run past us whilst Jen and I stoically stuck to The Plan. A mile in and the toe Jonnies came off, they were fucking awful. A mile later and I really needed to change my socks, they were just all wrong and were rubbing. I eventually got into my stride and we began running properly which I think Jen was grateful for, she’s a proper runner and I think I was cramping her style.
We bounced cheerfully along for the first 19 miles; it was genuinely brilliant. All that training and miles in our legs meant that 19 miles felt comfortable, and I never thought I’d ever say that. Quick pit stop at a church/graveyard (where else would you want to stop for a sausage roll?) and then we set off again, this time though, with music. I’d packed my little boom box and we started with Eye of the Tiger just as we hit the first hill and I heard someone mutter, ‘you fucking legend…’ as we passed by. The tracks continued and as Aha’s Take on Me rang out, people started singing along and I was swiftly dubbed The Boom Box Lady. This joy continued for the next 5 miles, Jen had to pull me back during Sex is on Fire as I was running a 9 minute mile and she was worried I’d burn out, so we slowed the pace a bit and just plodded, it was grand.
Next pit stop was at 24 miles, we stopped quickly again for some salty snacks but the midges at this point were lethal, the air was thick with them and we were being bitten to buggery so we moved quickly on. We couldn’t quite work out why this pit stop was so soon after the first one though, it was only 5 miles between stops, that seemed strange….
We soon discovered why. It was to prepare us for what was to come. Hills. 30 percent fucking hills. I live in Bedfordshire for fuck’s sake, there’s only one hill and we’d aced that with our sticks. Oh my God, you’ve never seen anything like it, we were scrambling up on our fucking hands and knees and this went on for 6 miles. The Fell runners were incredible, they were like little mountain goats whipping up past the rest of us and were clearly used to the terrain, but for most of us it was a baptism of fire. Jen went on ahead, she’d found a friend at her speed walking pace and I told her to go, it was her run as much as mine and we both just needed to do our own thing. 6 miles of this did for my dodgy knee though, I suffer with bursitis and by the end of it, it was on fire. Pit stop number 3 was at mile 30, the knee support came out and I stopped for about 40 minutes which was a Big Mistake. After more food and having seized up completely, I hobbled off.
The next 14 miles were absolute agony, my sticks came out again and I relied on them just to push myself along. My hips were on fire, my left knee was feeling very weak and I turned the music off as I was feeling very grumpy and not in the mood for a singalong. I managed a bit of running here and there but it was mostly walking. I got to mile 42 and there was a grassy knoll with a young chap sat on it overlooking the town and I sat down and joined him. His name was James and he was in a contemplative mood. He felt that perhaps 70 miles was just too much for him, he really wanted to complete it but those hills had nearly finished him off. Me too James, me too. We chatted for about 15 minutes and headed off together, he was a little faster than me so eventually I lost him and for the next 3 miles I passed and was passed by various people I’d seen along the way, all of whom would call out, ‘hey, it’s the boombox lady!’.
Mile 44 and I arrived at Hexham. My husband (Robert bless him, had been at every pit stop along the way) pretty much caught me as a I fell and half carried me into the pit stop tent. As we passed by the river I could see James sat on a bench just staring at the water.
I couldn’t eat, I felt sick and was quite tearful. A wonderful Marshal came over and chivvied me along, told me I could do it, fetched me hot soup and coffee and told me to change my socks. I’ve got this she told me, do not give up now. I stopped there for about half an hour, managed a small amount of food and despite Robert telling me I had nothing to prove I picked myself up and carried on.
I hobbled along at two miles per hour for the next three miles, by which point it was about 10pm and pitch black. I passed the 47 mile mark and suddenly my knee gave way and I pitched into a ditch. I sat there a bit stunned for a minute, tried to stand up but swerved into the road as my head went fuzzy, and I sat down in the ditch again and evaluated my life choices. This was a fun run, I’d had fun for most of it but now it really wasn’t fun, I wasn’t being paid for this, quite the contrary, I’d paid the best part of 200 quid to be here and if I carried on this could quite possibly turn medical. What if I couldn’t teach spin and all my other fitness classes for 6 months? What if I did myself a permanent injury? What if a bus had been coming up behind me when I fell into the road?
Now I can honestly say I’ve never not completed a challenge, I climb every hill, I’ve never once pushed my bike, not even up Ditchling Beacon. I’ve finished every race and before I started everyone had said, if anyone is going to finish this, it’ll be you. Well here I was, in a ditch being well and truly shown my own arse and do you know what? It was ok and I didn’t mind one bit. For the first time in my life I’d been shown my own limits and I was fine with that.
As I sat there philosophising a couple of head torches came bobbing up from behind and a concerned ‘are you ok?’. I assured them that I was, and the lovely couple helped me find the emergency number for the Love Bus, I called it through and was told it’d be around 20 minutes. Several other people came along over the course of the next 50 minutes (20 minutes my arse) and everyone was very kind, showed concern and offered to wait with me. The Love Bus eventually arrived, I wasn’t the only occupant and the delay had been caused by needing to pick up several other runners.
At 48 miles we picked up a distraught young woman who was convinced she’d failed but after a stern talking to, the rest of us got her in a head space of ‘bloody hell, I’ve just run nearly two marathons, that’s amazing’. Yes it is, nothing about today has been a failure.
At 52 miles we collected James and as he got on the bus we gave each other a knowing look, an affectionate hello and clasped hands. We felt all the feels that day.
We picked up 3 or 4 other people on our way to Newcastle, pretty much all the way to the end, some people tapped out two miles to the end which I found hard to contemplate when they were so near the finish. I’d had nearly a marathon and probably at that pace, 8 hours in front of me, I was done, but two miles? An hour at most? I guess it just shows that when you’re finished, you’re finished.
We arrived in Newcastle, round the back in the car park. We didn’t cross the finish line, there were no cheers and claps for us, no medal as we were DNF’s – Did Not Finish. Robert was there though, and he’d ordered pizza. I climbed into a hot bath at the Hilton Hotel, I was filthy and crusty and sore. I’d had messages from Jen along the way and she told me she’d crossed the finish line at about 10pm, pretty much the same time that I’d collapsed and called the Love Bus. Amazing.
Post Race
After a really bad night’s sleep I headed off to Jen’s room. Her blisters were like nothing you’ve ever seen in your life, one almost covered her entire foot and seriously looked like it required treatment at a walk in clinic. She said she’d been throwing up what looked like coffee grounds all night and having consulted Dr Google, it was apparently blood from her intestines as some of her organs were struggling to cope under such pressure. At breakfast we heard that one runner had been checked out at A&E over night because his kidneys had started failing (apparently that’s a thing for some Ultra runners) and over the course of the next two days he updated the Facebook group with the fact that he’d been back 3 times since.
So many tales of illness and injury following this run that I knew I’d made the right decision to stop when I did. I think if I’d stopped at Hexham I would have regretted it and would never have known if I could have continued. By pushing to the point of collapse – but not beyond – I knew for sure what my absolute limits were. Jen’s feet ballooned and she couldn’t walk properly or wear any type of shoe for a week. I was sore for two days and then I was fine again. I taught spin on the Tuesday, Legs, Bums and Tums on Wednesday and a full weekend of HIIT the following week. My knee stoically held up under pressure.
Conclusion
The experience overall was incredible, the camaraderie and support is like nothing else, the organisation of the race was exceptional (so if you ever contemplate it even after having read this, go with Rat Race, they’re the best in the industry as far as I’m concerned), the route was perfect, despite the hills, it was stunning and historic and wild, and the feeling of achievement is second to none. Robert had arrived at every pit stop and just seeing his face, having a cuddle and the support from someone you love really spurs you on. However, if you do consider ever doing anything this ridiculous, bear in mind that for long periods of time it’s likely that you will be running solo, sometimes up to several hours, so prepare yourself for that and make friends along the way so that you’ve got someone to chat to when possible. Ultra running is lonely.
I didn’t get an official medal but Jen arranged for a special medal to be made just for me and a week after arriving back home, it landed on the doormat. I wore it every day for a week – I was, I am, An Ultra Runner and I’ve got an unofficial medal to prove it.
Would I do it again? Probably. Do I know why? Still no, other than I love running and pushing my limits for inexplicable reasons, and that’s good enough for me.
Big thanks, credits, sweaty hugs and whoops to Rat Race, Runners Need Biggleswade, Carlisle Station Hotel and the Double Tree Hilton in Newcastle. And to all the lovely runners and Marshals who were just so bloody nice.
Much love, The Boombox Lady xx
by Rebecca Preen
