Firstly, please excuse the uncharacteristic length of this entry. I wanted to write my account, my whole account, and keeping things short and sweet has never really been a strength of mine! Secondly, I wanted my account to be true to how I felt at the time, and the truth is that I found this challenge very, well, challenging. At times I was very physically tired as well as sleep deprived, and I’ve written this as I saw it through those eyes, not with the fond, satisfied, smug smile of hindsight with which I enthusiastically view the whole experience now! So I apologise if this makes for a slightly depressing read in places (or perhaps I just come over as a bit of a Moaning Myrtle.. again, sleep deprivation seems to have than effect on me.) I can assure you it was an amazing experience- one that I will never forget – and one that I am very proud to have taken on.
Now you may want to grab yourself a cup of tea, a cold beer or a snack, because this entry really is rather long. You have been warned.
Pre-registration on Friday
On the gloriously (and mysteriously, given the pre- and proceeding day’s weather) sunny Friday evening, I made my way to the start line of the London to Brighton 100k Challenge to pre-register for the next day’s unholy early start, picking up a timing chip, orange-flavoured energy gel, reflective arm-band, and various other bits and bobs. The beautiful evening sunshine streaming through the sail-flags seemed like they could only be a good omen of things to come, and indeed I felt a great deal of much-needed reassurance at just how normal my fellow challengers looked. People of all ages, shapes and sizes, two 50-something men with balding heads and pot bellies, a group of chatty middle-aged women taking on the challenge together, husband and wife teams, a wiry grey-haired woman who must have been at least 60, and so many other people of every possible description. Having feared being surrounded by sinewy, expensive lycra-clad, super-experienced ultra-distance marathoners, the reality was pleasingly ordinary and familiar, and I arrived at my pre-race stopover feeling a bolstered and a little happier than I had been on waking that day.
Home-made pizza with Claire: the perfect pre-race evening
The ever-wonderful fitness-guru Claire (of Great Vegan Expectations) and her partner Ben very kindly let me stay at their new home pre-race, and it is hard to think of two better people to stay with before such an event (Or indeed after, where I cannot thank them enough for their kindness in helping me recover from the challenge, but that will be the subject of a whole other post). I had a wonderful evening carb-loading on homemade vegan pizzas, drinking tea, and great conversation that very nearly made me forget the big scary challenge looming just around the corner. The 5.30am alarm therefore seemed like a rather a rude awakening, and the sound of rain dripping down the windows an unwelcome development – so much for the sunny omen of the night before.
A rainy start in Richmond
Ready to go
The start-line at the Old Deer Park in Richmond had a bustling atmosphere, and although I questioned my own need for an energetic zumba warm-up after having already walked for 20 minutes to get there, the light-hearted silliness of it all seemed to normalise the situation and made me relax and feel at ease. I crossed the start line at 7am, keeping up a brisk pace with the aim of remaining ahead of the main body of walkers, but cautioning myself repeatedly that I must not, under any circumstances, be tempted to break into a jog. I fixed on a target ahead of me – a man wearing comedy boxer-shorts with a plastic arse hanging out of the back of them – and decided to make him my personal pace-maker. I must not let the arse out of my site.
The first 12km to the stage 1 mid-point at Green Lane Recreation Ground (Kingston) passed rapidly and without event. I pottered solo along the canal tow path, doggedly keeping the arse in my view at all times, even (naughtily, and against my better judgement) jogging for short stretches when it disappeared around a corner. Eventually I simply had to accept that keeping abreast of the arse was not a realistic goal, but I continued to use those around me as pace-makers, and made it to Green Lane in good time – somewhere around the 2 hour mark. Impressed by the array of snacks on offer – what seemed like a veritable Willy Wonka-like spread of jelly babies, Haribo, and chocolate, as well as fruit and cereal bars – I had to sternly remind myself of my strategy to stop only where necessary, and instead of tucking into some premature elevenses I downed a quick glass of water and a banana for the road, and headed onwards without stopping.
The second half of Stage 1, through the rather flat, grey and uninspiring landscape of suburban London again passed very quickly, the dull scenery made up for my lively conversation with a new walking companion who I had fallen into step with shortly after the Green Lane stop. We reached Oaks Park (Carshalton) in great time at 11.15. I felt fresh and energetic. This was the first major rest stop of the course, marking 24.3km (nearly a quarter of way in just 4 and a quarter hours) and the end of Stage 1. Feeling buoyed by my speediness, I posted up a jubilant Facebook selfie, fired off a couple of smug texts and inhaled my packed lunch, before bounding off like an excited Labrador to tackle Stage 2.
Lunchtime selfie
The route was pleasant, the greyness of greater London giving way to the lush green beauty of Farthing Downs and Happy Valley, complete with deer, friendly cows and many a dog walker. The heavy rain of earlier had by now given way to a beautiful clean sunshine as time and kilometres passed quickly. Around Chaldon my new walking buddy fell behind due to a sore knee, and I continued on ahead, cheerfully enquiring about people’s charities as I walked alongside them for a little while, generally before overtaking them. I was alone as I passed through a tunnel underpass under the M25, a poignant landmark of being outside the city, the challenge now truly underway.
Farthing Downs: sunshine and smiles
It was at about 38km in, near Bletchingly, that I began to notice a sharp pain in my right shin, like a pressure building from within the leg. I was on a road with a moderate down-hill slope at the time, and it felt as though with the hard ground and the downwards stride the pain was worsening with each step, a jarring build-up of pressure. I moved to the softer ground of the grass verge in order to soften the strikes and the pain, but I had no choice but to slow down, and soon people were streaming past me. Once back on the flat, grassy fields I managed to regain my flow as I approached the 40km Stage 2 mid-point at New Henshaw Farm, snaffling a packet of crisps without stopping to sit down, and determinedly making my way onwards, knowing that the next rest stop would be past the half way point. Little did I know that I was about to collide with the first “wall.”
For a couple of kilometres the route continued over soft, springy grass, and I maintained a decent pace, walking alone, enjoying the sunshine. But as soon as the route took me back to tarmaced country lanes I realised that my current speed was not sustainable. The pain and pressure in that right shin forced me into a slight limp, my pace dropped, and once again other challengers began flooding past me. I soon fell into step with another antalgic gait, one belonging to a jogger who had set off over an hour after me and taken Stage 1 at great speed, only to be thwarted by a building pain in both knees. Strangers at this point, we would go on to complete the entire course together, limping along side by side, and I must questions whether I would ever have reached the end without him.
Early in the day, I had breezily concluded (with no evidence on which to base my assertions) that the most difficult section of course would be from 60-75km. I reasoned that at this point I would be past half-way and therefore beginning to feel tired and sore, however would not be near enough to the end to be spurred on yet by thoughts of crossing the finishing line, glory, champagne, and so forth. Everything up to 60 would be light work on fresh legs; everything beyond 75 would be achieved by simply floating on the adrenaline of being “near the end” (I must laugh at my naivety here. 25km was always going to take a minimum for 4 hours. By the end, it probably took closer to 8). Of course I was totally wrong. I walked squarely into my first “wall” at about 46km, and nothing could console me for the next 10km.
We were limping along, on painfully hard roads, each step jarring the pressure in my shin, the distances between kilometre markers seeming to widen and widen and widen the closer we edged to the halfway point of 50. The country roads seemed tauntingly endless, monotonous, a steady stream of overtakers, and all kinds of jealousy directed at a local child trotting by on her pony (in fairness, she did offer us a ride!). Thump, thump, thump on the tarmac, each step building the painful pressure but seeming not to bring us any closer to that all important 50km marker. Rather than the boredom that I had predicted would make 60-75km the most challenging section, it was the creeping sense of self-doubt. If I was suffering this way before even reaching halfway, how on earth would I walk the remaining 50km? This wasn’t supposed to happen; 50km was supposed to be within my comfort zone – I had trained at 50k, I could do 50k, so why was this happening? It was all wrong. It wasn’t meant to be this way. It was tears and misery, rather than satisfaction, that overwhelmed me as we passed that crucial milestone. I found myself seriously contemplating, for the first time, how it would feel not to finish. It filled me with shame and dread. The loss of face, the shame I would feel letting down everyone who had sponsored me, everyone who had believed in me, everyone who had helped me. Dropping out loomed large, a real possibility, not a choice, but a necessity, and soon I could no longer hide the tears. But we didn’t stop. We pressed on. Through the tears and the pain, to Tulley’s Farm – 56km, end of Stage 2.
Blister dressings at 56km
Nourishment: macranoni cheese, chips and pulled pork
Far from feeling rallied by the enthusiastic cheers of the tireless supporters as I walked into the rest stop, I felt utterly demoralised. Their calls of support made me feel inadequate, praising me just as I was doubting my ability to carry on. I stumbled into the food tent, unable to control my sobs, and was instantly flooded by concerned volunteers asking me if I needed help, painkillers, medical attention? I shrugged them off and grabbed a plate of macaroni cheese and pulled pork before collapsing on a chair to put myself back together. I downed painkillers and electrolytes, removed mud-soaked socks from my steaming feet and carefully taped and dressed my blisters, I turned on my phone to see a flood of messages from friends and family (I found out at this point that I had exceeded my fundraising target of £500 for WaterAid!), and slowly I started to feel restored. Fed, watered, and in clean dry socks, I felt like a different person. I had broken through “the wall.” I might not be able to finish, I now reasoned, but I could definitely continue to the next rest stop. One stop at a time.
My walking (limping?) buddy was sitting across from me, his head on the table, unable to eat anything and utterly exhausted. But he was determined to carry on, and we limped on into Stage 3 just after 7pm. We spent the next several kilometres making our peace with our new, slow pace. We discussed our motivations for doing the challenge, the causes we were fundraising for, and our moral obligation to push our limits and recognise how lucky we were to be fit and healthy and not take this for granted. This might all sound a bit lofty and pretentious, but 14 hours in, it simply kept us moving forwards. The evening sun was beautiful, the painkillers began to take effect, and the 60s – which I had predicted would be the most sole-crushing section – actually passed beneath us much more peacefully and happily than I ever would have thought possible in my utter despair back at that taunting 50km sign.
Crossing the Ardingly reservoir
At the 67km Ardingly College mid-point we stopped only briefly to get blister dressings for my buddy’s feet and to pull out head-torches, glow-sticks and waterproofs in preparation for the fast-falling darkness. The next stop after this would be 80km – somehow this felt vitally significant – and we were keen to press on. As we left the warmth of the first aid tent the rain came down thicker and thicker, dripping down my face, off my nose, and into my mouth. We entered the Standgrove woods, which turned out to be a veritable labyrinth of narrow, winding paths, each a sea of mud, becoming more and more treacherous which each passing minute of increasingly heavy rainfall. We clung to branches, wire fences and brambles as we slipped and squelched along the route. Concentrating on remaining upright, focusing carefully on where to place the next footfall, plotting paths through the undergrowth to avoid the worst of the sludge. My shoes and socks were once again drenched in think sticky mud. Perhaps it was the break from the monotony of road walking, the distraction caused by the hazards of darkness and mud, but time passed quickly here. Concentrating on remaining upright as we battled through the elements provided relief from the previous focus of repetitive strain and pain, or perhaps sliding around in the mud was putting different muscle groups to work. My training in the water-logged fields of Devon came into its own – avoiding puddles, spotting dry pathways through the mud fields, side-stepping along banks while clinging to barb-wire fencing – this was familiar territory. Maybe this is why relatively few people seemed to overtake us during this night-time adventure; we held our own in the mud. My waterproof coat and trousers stood up to the onslaught of rain such that despite my drenched feet, the rest of me remained cosy and dry, the rain on my hood harking back to childhood camping memories.
The 80km rest stop at Wivelsfield School is a blur of bacon baps, blisters, tired faces staring blankly into space over lukewarm coffees, and the overwhelming feeling that I must avoid the inviting warmth of the gymnasium first aid station at all costs if I was to ever walk out of there and complete the final 20k. Painkillers, blister-strapping, change socks – on autopilot. It was 1.30am when we walked in, 2am when we walked out, stiffly limping into the inky night and the start of the final leg – Stage 4, too exhausted to speak, having come much too far to stop. I don’t remember how I felt at this point, perhaps because I felt nothing; nothing except an intangible pull towards the finish line. I had no thoughts, or I certainly don’t recall any, in those quiet night-time hours. I didn’t focus on music, fundraising, or messages of support to get me though. I simply blundered forwards, step by painful step. Like a zombie, with no brain.
80km rest stop: the blur of bacon baps
With the pull of the finish line growing stronger and stronger with each step, we made our stop at the final mid-point (Plumpton College 87.2km) as brief as possible. I stashed a couple of energy gels in my pockets and tried to keep my legs from seizing up, whilst trying feebly to pep up my walking buddy who had just vomited on the floor outside. We trudged blearily on; just 13k to go. As dawn began to break we approached the towering wall of the South Downs, rising impossibly steeply before us, a 60m climb.
I had heard whispered rumours of the horrors of the South Downs from previous challengers. In fact, the first thing that my dad said to me when I told him that I was walking London to Brighton was “You do know there is a huge hill at the end, don’t you?” I knew it was coming, I was prepared for it, and I saw it in some way as the final hurdle. This was my downfall I think, as for all that I had built it up in my head as the ultimate end to the challenge, climbing the downs felt comparatively easy. The pain in my shin was most pronounced on descents and so climbing steeply did not cause it any great discomfort, and the lack of any serious inclines earlier on the course meant that my muscles actually felt relatively fresh for climbing, and I even stopped briefly to admire the sunrise from this great vantage point. “This is it,” I told myself, “nearly finished, nearly there!” Only once I reached the top, rolling hills of grassland stretching before me, did I realise my mistake. The beacon was 10km from the end, and 10km was never, realistically, ever going to be “just 10km” at the end of 22 hours of solid walking. The final 10k, which I had assumed would float effortlessly past in a sea of adrenaline-induced joy, were in fact the toughest part of the course for me.
Dawn breaking over the South Downs
Pain, exhaustion, struggle… those final 10km gave new meaning to these words for me. There were new levels of tiredness beyond my previous experience, beyond what I had ever imagined I could feel. Mostly we didn’t talk, but we did reach a consensus on the best word to describe our current state; “destroyed.” We felt physically, mentally and emotionally destroyed. This may sound melodramatic, and writing this in retrospect it feels that way too, but at 92… 93… 94km into this gruelling endurance challenge, through the bleariness of exhaustion and the irrationality of pain, that was the truth of how we felt. I whimpered for much of that final 10km, barely audible squeaks with nothing left in the way of corresponding tears. I felt as though I had given and given and given of myself to this challenge – I felt that I had nothing left to give. We trudged and limped on, the finish tantalising close yet elusively far away. The distances between kilometre markings seemed to stretch to ludicrous lengths.
Brighton racecourse: the final push
The final 500m or so, on Brighton racecourse, were the longest metres of the race. The finish line, flags, banners, and cheering supporters seemed to remain unreasonably far away. I found myself looking at the ground and slowly counting out 100 steps before looking up again just to convince myself that they really were getting closer. As I crossed the finish line at 7.35am after 24:34:43 hours, there was no elation or joy or even relief (or at least not straight away – all of that would come later though, I promise!), there was just a pure realisation that I didn’t have to walk anymore. I could sleep now, right there on the grass if I wanted to. Someone placed a medal round my neck, someone else shook my hand, congratulated me, handed me a glass of champagne. I know these things happened but I remember no faces. I don’t think I said anything. I don’t even think I smiled; there was nothing left just then. I had stopped walking, finally stopped walking. The Challenge was over. Maybe this was relief after all.
Finish line selfie
Thank you once again to all who have sponsored me so far! My fundraising page will remain open for the next few weeks – please give generously to WaterAid
Where's Viv? 