After my first 100 miler, the NDW 2013, I didn’t run another step for four months. I totally lost interest in running. I found other things to fill my time. I didn’t miss it at all. I put weight on, little niggly problems started to occur in my legs for no apparent reason, and I started to huff and puff while walking up escalators and stairs. After Christmas I knew I needed to get back in the saddle, and I did what I did the year before – I signed up for the NDW100 2014. I guess it’s like childbirth; you only really know how bad something like a tough Ultra is while it’s happening, and then once it’s finished, over time your mind eases off on it and the good things start to outweigh the bad. Out goes the tortuous climb up Box Hill after 26 miles of running, in comes the familial love of the Centurion marshals and volunteers. I forgot the night section with the hallucinations and the falling asleep while running pitch-dark trail, and instead remembered, vividly, the joy of that sweet finish line.

With the NDW 2014 booked, I now had eight months to prepare for it. I wanted to go under 24 hours. It would mean knocking more than five hours off my personal best, but I knew where I needed to improve and not only would this make me faster, it would also enable me to enjoy it more. I knew that I’d learned from the experience. I knew that I had to get ready. I booked the LDWA’s Punchbowl Marathon and Centurion’s SDW50, both to run with my friend John Pickup. With the NDW as a massive hilly horror show, I booked the TP100 thinking that it would be a straightforward way to get the distance in my legs and then later apply the hills. How wrong I was.

The Punchbowl went badly; I don’t think either John or I were happy with our performance there. 30 miles of hills in about 7 hours, something bad going on there. Together with James Elson I worked out that two of the major things I’d been getting wrong were hydration and nutrition: the former signified by crusty salt deposits on my face after each long distance run; the latter by crushing lows and long slow death marches when I should be running. If I learned to drink more and to eat more methodically, I could improve.

With more suitable hydration and nutrition the SDW50 was fantastic. I worked out an A, B and C race schedule, with the A race getting us both in around 10 hours 50 minutes. We both finished in some style in 10 hours 8 minutes, and it felt relatively easy. I was buoyed. And then came this race, the TP.

Crushing, relentless flatness.

James had warned me that this race is deceivingly tough because of its lack of hills. 2,500 feet of elevation, and I couldn’t really see where even that much ascension could come from – running along the Thames, surely that’s flat. Isn’t it? I needed to find out. Sarah offered to help me recce some of it a few weeks earlier, and we chose Henley to Whitchurch, a 14-mile section just after the halfway checkpoint, when during the race it would be dark and require a diversion away from the river. The recce went well, a very dry day and I realised that the biggest problem would be the severely rutted fields which had dried and toughened, and defined a really challenging and potentially ligament-damaging surface on which to run.

The day before the race I was still unsure on kit choice. I decided on road shoes for the first half, having heard that it was mostly tarmac and hard-packed dirt; and trails for the second half because it had been raining for a solid week around Reading and I didn’t fancy Torvill-and-Deaning my way over muddy fields at night in road shoes. The rest was easy, just warm tops and leggings, and more dry warm clothes in drop bags. Just in case, you know… it could be cold during the night down by the river. Or I might fall in the Thames.

On the day of the race I drove Sarah and my two children down to Richmond Park, and they went to park while I went through registration. I checked in my drop bags, and then I saw my fellow Boshers Luke Ashton, Shawn Timmons, Tremayne Dill Cowdry, Helen Gittens and Sunday Odesanya, and had a… well, I would have had a nice chat with them, except that I realised my bladder had sprung a leak. No, not that bladder. The Hydrapak in my Salomon vest. The vest was sopping wet, and I traced it to a small hairline crack near the valve in the bladder itself. Shit. I’d packed an old spare Hydrapak, but it was in the drop bag I’d just put in the sodding van ready to be transported. Panicking a bit, I wasn’t sure what to do; Tremayne and Luke persuaded me that running with it like that wasn’t an option – what if it split during the race? “Get and sort yer bladder ahht,” the laughing voice of Helen rang in my ears as I raced inside and started registering, all the while looking for James Elson. Eventually I found him and, amazingly, he had a new Hydrapak bladder for sale. I’d have paid anything that moment. Handily, because this particular device has a removable tube I only had to transfer the water into the new bladder, which I did with Luke’s help, and jam it inside the vest. I was all set. My family and I decamped to a local café for tea and pastries, and then I kissed them all goodbye and went to the race briefing. The only thing of note there was the fire alarm, which kept going off as someone in the corner kept opening a fire door. It would repeatedly go off to accompanied groans, then that person would slam the door to silence the alarm and cause a hearty cheer from the 200+ runners squeezed into Richmond Town Hall. That happened maybe three times, and then after James had done his spiel we all headed down to the start line where I gave Sarah and the kids a kiss again and they, along with a couple of hundred others, waved us all off on our little journey to Oxford.

The first thing I remember was the track narrowing to single file, and the runners ahead slowing to a walk before stopping altogether. Some people were heading to the left and right to hurdle a fence, and then I could see why – a kissing gate at the end with 200+ runners trying to simultaneously squeeze through it. No chance. I ventured to one side, climbed over the fence, and was off. Within a couple of miles I was already hungry and, determined to eat right from the get-go according to my plan, I whipped out a ham sandwich from my pack… and promptly dropped the little plastic bag it was carried in. James had described littering the trail as “second only to abusing a volunteer,” so I was keen to head back and pick it up – but a kind runner picked it up for me and handed it over. One of the little touches that marks out Ultra running as one of the friendliest sports, someone – a ‘competitor’ – picking up your rubbish to save you having to do so.

The first few miles were great, I fairly quickly started to recognise this area as I live near Walton (CP 1) and I’ve run as far as Eel Pie Island before, which is in Twickenham and only a mile or two from the start of this race. Heading through Kingston was busy with people as expected, and then passing Hampton Court Palace was lovely as always, with the golden gates glinting in the sunlight. Approaching the bridge just after the palace there was a bloke in a leather jacket with a clipboard, who consulted it before shouting to me “Here’s another one, COME ON ANDY!” I’ve no idea who he was or if he was in any way official. I thought to myself maybe he’s the Ultra running equivalent of a trainspotter; downloading the runner details and heading to cheer them on – quite a cool idea really  J

I felt good just burning through the miles, knowing that Sarah and the kids would be at Wraysbury. I texted her to ask if she could bring my Montaine lightweight trousers for the halfway point, already thinking that this temperature could really drop at nighttime near the river. Still feeling strong for the moment, I arrived at the Wraysbury check point about 20 minutes ahead of my schedule. Sarah and the kids were sitting outside and I gave them a hug each, with Billy commenting how sweaty I was. I went inside and grabbed a few bits of banana, cookies and sandwiches and threw away all my rubbish; then went to the loo – a luxurious aid station, this one. I went outside and kissed the family goodbye, and ran on towards Dorney. I was now only 10 minutes ahead of schedule, and slightly annoyed with myself for dawdling, but it was lovely to see Sarah and that gave me an extra lift as I set off towards Dorney.

As we passed the Dorney CP at mile 30.5 the volunteers there were talking in hallowed terms about Ed Catmur, who had been through there in, I think, about 3-and-a-half hours, and at that point was about 20 minutes ahead of second place. This was about hour six for me, and I wondered idly if they’d been talking about this to all runners for over two hours, would they keep that up for the next couple too? I didn’t really mind, the leaders in races like this are so far ahead of me as it makes no odds.

Onwards towards Cookham at mile 38. As I headed up Sutton Road I saw a face I recognised, Luke Tillen who I’d met doing The Wall last year. He runs a small charity called THHN that helps disadvantaged children to have a holiday, and we ran together for a while and compared fundraising notes. He was looking strong and it was good to catch up; I think both of us are pretty determined, so we drew a bit of extra resolve from each other and it was clear that, barring injury, we’d both finish this race.

Just after the Cookham CP we passed a pub on the left and a bloke sitting having a pint shouted encouragement to us and told us that we should be careful not to miss the bridge coming up. Yes, yes, I’m sure we’re capable of reading some signs old man, and it should be all marked. But, me and my big mouth, Luke and I settled into a rhythm of chatting again and, next to the aptly named ‘Cock Marsh’, we ran about a quarter-mile past the bridge in question. We would have kept going too, except an old dear seated next to another pub told us that other runners had crossed an earlier bridge. I turned around and could see the bloody thing and a bunch of runners who had been behind us were now crossing it, and we kicked ourselves for missing it. I called back another guy here who was 100 yards in front of us and in his own zone.

Arriving at Henley dusk was approaching and the temperature was already dropping. As well as meeting Sarah I was also looking forward to hot food and my drop bag, and I expected to find a warm building, but instead the Centurion sails revealed a large open-sided tent. I couldn’t see Sarah yet so I texted her, grabbed my drop bag and sat down to open it. Ah, dry socks and shoes, and a fresh top. Sweet! I peeled off my road shoes and marvelled at the vast quantity of mud that had permeated them and turned my white socks a deep brown colour. Why doesn’t Hilly make black Twin Skin socks any more? Who the hell wears white socks anyway? Not trail runners, for sure. My feet were looking OK so I grabbed my Inov-8 gaiters and put them on as well, imagining there would be a lot of crap to be kept out in the coming 49 miles.

For some reason I really struggled to put my shoes on and tie them up. My fingers were cold and a bit shaky, while my left foot was swelling a bit at the top. I had a job tying it tight enough to not get sucked off in a bog (ooer missus) but not so tight as to prevent my foot from ballooning. Sarah arrived and explained they’d parked quite a way away and the kids and my mate Iain were waiting to make sure she’d found me. After a quick kiss and a hug she went to get me some pasta and a cup of tea, and then shot back to the car. I made myself busy with my new top (over the old base layer, which I’m now thinking was a mistake as I was a bit sweaty) my water/windproof jacket and a Buff. I started to feel incredibly cold and I just wanted to get out of there. I tried warming myself up with the tea and that helped a bit, but the pasta was cold by then and I only ate about three pieces, even though I’d been looking forward to it for so long. I felt a bit glum because of that, and looking back on it now I think, nutritionally, that was the time when the wheels started to fall off my wagon.

Sarah and I started running then, both with head torches turned on and Sarah skipping along the twilight trail. She’d never run at night before and I think she was relishing it and running well, intending to run for three miles and then meet up with Iain and the car. We chatted about what they’d been doing during the day, and I told her (through viciously chattering teeth) that I’d been going OK but really needed to warm up now. The trail at this point was lovely; fairly solid and flat mud, nice and wide so it never felt like we were in any peril from the drop into the river. The Thames itself looked inky black, exactly the sort of effect you get when running up high in the hills at night and look down a ravine; all that black could easily have been a few hundred feet of drop.

After a seemingly really short time I realised we’d reached Shiplake railway station, the intended meeting point with Iain; and there they were, all smiles and waving out of the car windows. My Garmin said 1.8 miles. Some bad Google maps plotting on my part, I think. Bugger. Kindly Iain offered to drive on a bit further so Sarah and I could run on a bit. Now this was strange; we were running in a small group along a narrow lane, and I could hear our car behind us, following at a sedate pace. It was actually really useful as the headlights picked out a much wider area of the dark road than the head torches would. In a few minutes we reached a gate that needed to be crossed, so Iain and Sarah swapped, and after kisses goodbye she and the kids drove off to their lovely warm hotel. Well, the Days Inn, which sometimes passes as a hotel.

Then it was Iain’s turn to run with me. I was grateful to have the continued company as it was pretty dark by now, and I hadn’t seen him for a few months so we had a lot to catch up on. We crossed from the road through a gate and down into… a quite boggy field. Honestly, I’d barely seen mud up until this point, and within about 10 yards of Iain starting to run we were ankle deep in it. Welcome to the Thames Path 100, Iain – you who primarily run on roads and had never run with a head torch before! We had too much to talk about to be bothered with the mud though, and I think he quite enjoyed it (I’m always quite mystified when runners are suspicious/wary/afraid of mud; running’s a great excuse to be a kid again, to go stomping through puddles and fall over in mudslides, and then just hose yourself down when you get home. A literal and figurative connection with nature. See Richard Askwith’s new book ‘Running Free’ for a much more detailed and astute description of this than I could wish to give). Iain had no idea where he would run to, he just wanted to start and then when the time felt right, he’d get a cab back to his car. I was happy for the extended company. We ended up running about 10 miles together and then eventually, just after we climbed the bridge near Tilehurst, he decided he’d have to head for civilisation in Pangbourne and a possible cab company, and we said goodbye before I disappeared down the steps back to the river and headed for the Whitchurch CP.

I was still run/walking at this stage and felt OK, but eating was still nagging at the back of my mind; I just wasn’t taking in enough and with around 33 miles to go I knew that meant problems. I had a gel for some instant calories and ran on. Walking felt good and strong, striding out, but running was getting less and less strong all the time.

I walked for a while with a guy called Martin, and feeling good to have the company of someone who seemed happy to be moving at my pace, and also seemed assured of the route having recced it all over the past few weeks. Nice guy, wish I could remember which of the several Martins in the race it was!

At Whitchurch I left ahead of him and ran on up a bridleway at a slight incline, wondering that because this was uphill and the Thames wasn’t in sight, if this was in fact the right way. But a glow stick and a couple of reflective red/white tape strips confirmed it for me, good old Centurion. Further up the bridleway I saw half a dozen head torches coming the other way though, and my first slightly disorientated thought was that they must be walkers or runners in a different race; but then as they came into focus I could see they were wearing TP numbers. They said that the two front runners had gone quite a way further on and that it didn’t lead anywhere. I was pretty confident that it must be the right way, given the recent waymarkers, but they were insistent on heading back. Martin caught me up at this stage and I explained what was going on – and he was very happy that it was the correct route so we strode on. I called to the others to come with us but they were intent on heading back down the hill. Martin and I got to the top of the incline and went through a marked gate – I felt a bit sorry for the other guys at this point because those front runners must have been disorientated or otherwise distracted, the marking was really quite obvious. But they were long gone, so we marched on.

The incline continued and became steeper, quite a decent climb which made my leg muscles almost sing with joy after the repetitive running/walking across flat ground for the last 15 hours or so. I knew at some point that the uphill would turn into a downhill, and my goodness it did – a really long slight incline downwards that seemed to go on forever. This is absolutely my favourite type of running; a downward incline, occasional twists and turns, rough ground, and a bit of company to share it with. A neutral observer watching us, 70+ miles into a race, would probably see two slow guys plodding their way tortuously down a hill; but in my mind’s eye we were Kilian Jornet and Geoff Roes, fleet of foot and really going for it, taking huge advantage of the slope to gain speed and ground, all the while thinking that around the next corner it would be flat again – but there must have been at least a couple of miles of this rapid descent and it felt GREAT to be running again.

After Streatley my memory turns to mush for a while, a combination of tiredness and the dark, and the hypnotic rhythm of watching my headtorch pass the otherwise pitch-dark ground. At some stage I remember walking with two or three others, including Gary Kelly, a guy with a distinctive grey moustache that I’d seen before at races. We talked about everything and nothing as we made our way across muddy fields and through seemingly dozens of gates. It was great to have company through this very dark and lonely section. I also remember leaving a CP, possibly Wallingford, and chatting with an extremely loud-talking, confident American guy – nice enough, but gosh he sounded assertive as he we chatted about something and nothing. I remember seeing him later too, just coming into a CP looking a bit worse for wear as I was leaving; I hope he finished. I also remember mostly gobbling gels at this stage; Gu gels are not my favourite, but I grabbed two or three at each CP and went through at least one if not two per hour in absence of any quantity of real food.

At CP mile 85, Clifton Hampden, this is where I was to meet my final crew member, so I had a little spring in my step (not literally, I couldn’t do anything physical but walk). I made it into the little room in which the aid station was set up, and there was Rod Densham, my pacer for the last 15 miles and fellow SpecialEffect Ambassador. Rod and I had run, together with four other guys, from Marathon to Athens in late 2012 to raise money for the charity. The run was over Mount Penteli, unlike the official Athens marathon route; none of this running along closed roads for us, we chose to brave the traffic and run directly over the mountain just as, we thought, Pheidippides would have done. Well, not the traffic, but you know what I mean. It was an extremely eventful and enjoyable trip and we got to know each other quite well, the six of us. I’d barely seen Rod since so we had an awful lot to catch up on.

I knew the next 15 miles were going to be slow and tough, and I explained to Rod that I was walking the whole time now, and he was fine with that – kept saying that it’s my race, and he’s just along to support me. Every time there was a photo opportunity he’d move to one side so the photographer could snap me, and at every opportunity he’d tell anyone applauding us that he’s “a fraud” as he’d only been with me for a few miles. Soak it up though, man!

As we headed towards CP MILE 95 I spotted a familiar face waving at me and calling my name: Ruth Finnie, a fellow member of the Bosh running group and with whom I’d spent the final few miles of The Wall run last year. It was great to see her managing the aid station and we hugged, I was really happy that there was only five miles to go and another friendly face reminded me that there would be more of the same at the finish.

Rod knows the Oxford area really well, but I’d asked him not to say how far is left unless he’s absolutely sure. A pet hate of mine is when someone – even a bystander trying to be supportive – says something like “not long to go now” when actually there are several miles, or – worse – “Just a marathon to go now” when you’re 24 miles into a 50-mile race. As we quickly walked the path he pointed out some of the sights and the relative position of local colleges. Fascinating history, how the Oxford colleges amalgamated to form part of the University. I was pleased at this point that I’d brought my second Garmin, as I could count down each mile covered since the CP at Lower Radley (95 miles). It was a beautiful warm morning and there were plenty of people about, again an astonishing number of whom knew what we were doing and how close we were to the finish.

I get really emotional thinking about completing these races, especially when my mind drifts back to previous finishes, but at the time I find it a fairly straightforward experience. Maybe not an anti-climax – I know that I’m finished and it’s a great achievement each time – but I’m not in floods of tears as I expect to be. I just get to the finish line, get congratulated, have my photo taken and shake a bunch of hands. I’m just too tired to do anything else.

As we passed a University playing field with just over a mile to go on my watch, a couple called some encouragement to us and told us that the finish is “just around the corner.” My natural suspicions raised, and I called back, with a smile on my face (I think) “is it literally around the corner, or are you just being encouraging?” to which they replied “No, it’s literally around the corner.”

I said to Rod for the first time since he’d joined me, and for my first time since about mile 70, that I feel like running. Ordinarily I’d say that, for me anyway, the process of not running during a race is mostly mental and less about actual physical fatigue. Instantly I started running this time, though, I felt dreadful, like I was forcing a rusted old machine into life for the first time in years. But I always want to finish strong, and in this case with the number of friends and family meeting me, I was desperate to. At first I saw my in-laws, John and Sandra, who were waiting on the path and who were cheering and clapping and pointing me in towards the playing fields and the finish line. I loved John’s face at that point, he looked like he knew that this was an achievement. That made me feel great, and spurred me on a little bit.

Rod gave me the SpecialEffect flag to hold, and I imagined that we’d hold it together when crossing the finish line – but Rod insisted I carried it myself. “What do I do with this?”, I wondered, and then I did what any runner would do, I took a corner in each hand and held it above my head, like Mo Farah after winning Olympic gold. It felt good, like a little sail blowing in the wind. Then I saw Sarah, and the emotion on her face was clear. I gave her a hug on the way past, then I heard Billy calling me, and I shouted to him to come and join me. I couldn’t see Daisy for a moment but then I saw her too. Running along with the SpecialEffect flag, with my son, over the finish line of this race, to incredibly loud cheering and clapping, is something that will stay with me forever. Honestly the applause was startlingly loud, and because it was from so few people (compared with big half marathons) it felt quite personal and it was probably the proudest I’ve ever felt from a running achievement. I was met with a hug first from Nici who gave me my buckle, then from Stuart the photographer, then Sarah again, and then I saw the SpecialEffect people – Dr Mick, the founder, and possibly the kindest most generous man on earth, along with Nick and Ali. Nick had brought a bottle of beer – Car-Beer-Etta – which is created by a local Oxford brewery especially for SpecialEffect, and which had been signed by the SE crew. Ali had baked a cake and she gave it to me, really apologetically because the message that she’d written on in icing had gone a bit fuzzy. She seemed distraught, that I might somehow feel massively let down by this, so I just gave her a big hug too and thanked her. It was a wonderful cake, as it happens.

Just before I finish let me give a big shout-out to the Centurion crew and volunteers, particularly Nici and James for stunning organisation as always, and to Rich Cranswick for standing the whole day at various CPs in a chicken costume. But honestly, these runs will not work without volunteers, and they don’t come any more thoughtful, sharp and helpful than in a Centurion race; they always all seem to be Ultra runners having a day off! Congrats to Tremayne and Shawn for brilliant runs despite plenty of hardship, and commiserations to Luke and Mark Griffiths who didn’t make it this time.

So there we are. Another race over, and what had I done? Well, what I hadn’t done is made it in 24 hours, which I was secretly disappointed by. But I had done it in 25 hours 13 minutes, which beat my previous (and only) 100 mile PB by four hours. I’d finished in 101^st place, from 227 starters of which almost 80 had dropped out. I’d battled some demons around the cold second half, when it was dark and often quite lonely, and come through fairly strong. Apart from knackered muscles, a couple of small blisters caused by water ingress from the early morning dewy grass, and some chafing around several areas (some quite private), I had no real physical problems. I’d raised more than £1600 for SpecialEffect. I’d made some new acquaintances, reacquainted myself with some old friends, and I’d learned some stuff about myself and what to do/not to do next time so that I do it in nearer 20 hours, never mind 24. Most of all I’d really enjoyed myself; getting through the really low points truly is part of the fun. And while after the NDW100 I didn’t run another step for four months, this time I was already thinking forward to my next Ultra. Guess what it is? The NDW100, 2014. I’m coming for ya.