Magredi Mountain Trail 100: Taking Responsibility

So I made it in the end. To the start. I’ve spent the last few weeks unsure if I’d make it to this race given what’s been happening with Dad. I’m absolutely shattered, but at peace that I made it. I don’t think I’ve got it in me to get to the end, and there were a lot of things that could have stopped me getting here, but I’m at peace now that the decision was mine as to whether or not I was able to, rather than outside circumstances.

I got back from New Zealand after repatriating Dad from Peru after the bike accident that should have killed him, but didn’t. My old man certainly has something watching over him.

So I got back, without a shave for two weeks and not a step run in a month after the Ridgeway 86. I looked and felt dishevelled, and spent the last few days finally making the last minute arrangements. I hadn’t been able to get the medical form sorted so that was a big effort and a hundred and fifty quid.

I flew over yesterday to Venice, Italy. From there I stayed in Mestre then today got woken by the staff at eight thirty, despite checkout not being until ten. I took various trains and buses and ended up in the wrong town twenty kilometres north of here as I got on the wrong one a few hours ago. Eventually I got here with a couple of hours to spare around four in the afternoon. To Vivaro.

I arranged my kit bags, with a slight problem in that there wasn’t the option to leave one here at the start and finish line. I’m supposed to leave it in the car I don’t have. Oops.  Oh well, I just lugged it in with the rest of the drop bag stuff.

So because of the hassle with the travel here all day and I guess the cumulative tiredness I’m not feeling entirely ready for the race. I head down to the race briefing which is detailed in both Italian and English, and realise I’ve missed half of it. They then call each runner through to the start line by name with a fanfare which is pretty fun for the first twenty or so, but does take a while. Nice touch though, and they clearly want everyone to feel special.

Then we line up. Six o’clock. They shout something over the loudspeakers in Italian and everyone starts roaring before we set off. Weirdly, I feel this surge of emotion. I’m here. At the start. This is the race I’ve spent the last year aiming towards. In the last eleven months I’ve run the entire Endurancelife Coastal Trail Series , then stepped up to the Three Rings of Shap 100k, the 12 Labours of Hercules, another 100k at the SVP and finally the Ridgeway 86 miler a month ago. Fourteen ultras. So I should be feeling prepared, right?

But I don’t. I feel completely underprepared for this undertaking. The wave of emotion is I think relief more than anything. The feeling that I can let all the worries go for a while and just, well, run. It feels cathartic and euphoric in a lot of ways. I thought this moment would never come at points over the last year. I’m not particularly good at this running lark so it’s been really hard to keep the motivation and determination going against the odds.

But screw it, I’m here now. I’ve done what I didn’t think I could and got to the finish of all the races I didn’t believe in myself enough to just get to the start line of this one. And now, after a year, it has begun.

I place myself nearer the back of the field. My game plan, considering my recent fitness and circumstances, is to just sit at the back of the field, keep the pace casual and just try to stay ahead of the cut offs. We move through the tiny quaint town of Vivaro in northern Italy and a lot of the townspeople have come out to support. Dozens upon dozens of people line the streets cheering us on. The whole area around here has a very rustic, very Italian feel to it. And I bloody love Italy so this is great.

I get over what has happened before the race and just put it aside for a while. There will be time for that, but for now I just want to get things underway. People are chatting to each other all around me in Italian. I’ve no idea what is going on, but that’s kind of part of the fun of picking this race.

The course profile of this one is daunting. A hundred miles over the Dolomites. There is seven thousand and two hundred metres of ascent with about three or four serious ascents including a vertical kilometre just after the hundred kilometre point.

Given the fact I’ve had very little time to prepare for this physically, mentally and practically I haven’t studied the profile much. I have it printed in my pocket, but I’m expecting to be straight into the mountains. So it’s a surprise when I’m not.

We reach the edge of the town and everything is flat. We take the roads out, then turn north down a dirt farm road and far down the other end I see the mountains. They look absolutely massive. Far bigger than any of the little ones I’ve been practicing on in Britain. Even Scafell looks like a hill in comparison now that I can see these. The road goes straight for a very long time towards them.

This first section is a lot simpler than I was expecting. Given it’s completely flat it’s a good chance to get a bearing for how my body is actually faring up. To be honest, I’m struggling to get moving at anything close to a decent pace. Even now only a few kilometres in I can feel my legs feeling a bit tired. I guess the inactivity has taken a bit of a toll.

I take my mind off that, as it’s not going to help anyone. Instead, we take a turn to the west and are now on a dirt track that’s not lined with trees. This means there is a much nicer view of the mountains and they really are beautiful. The light is fading and I know that I’ll be all up in that in only a couple of hours. I can’t wait for the morning when I’ll be able to see everything and the mountains I’ll then be surrounded by.

I start to get a bit excited. I tell myself this is awesome. Instead of moping about, I start to tell myself that this is it. This is what I’ve been aiming for during the last year. One hundred miles. My first big finish. All I have to do is reach out, believe in myself and grab it.

It’s a steady first few kilometres, all still flat, just ever so slightly uphill. Not enough to notice. I hear people talking around me still but the field begins to thin out a lot more here. I notice that the few guys I was running around have mostly gone on ahead. I’m definitely no longer in the middle of the pack where I roughly started. I’m definitely nearer the back. But I’m completely fine with that.

We’ve been following roughly next to the big river that cuts through this part of the land. I haven’t seen it yet, but now we head directly to it and I realise it’s actually just a dried up riverbed. A handful of us make our way down to the stones and slowly move across. One guy trips quite badly and goes for the footballer approach of stumbling as if he’s nearly been killed for a few moments, then realising no one cares and straightening up. I say no one cares, we all check how he is and are waved off, then he realises he’s being a bit silly.

On the other side is the first checkpoint at twelve kilometres or so. I’ve not been expecting much as the route description said this would just be fruit. In reality there is a large spread of meat, cheese, cakes and drinks. People are drinking steaming cups of something and since it’s almost dark now I grab a cup. I’ve no idea what it is but it’s an incredibly sweet honeyed hot juice thing and fabulously tasty. I grab another cup, a cake and am on my way again. I’ve loads of food in my bag so don’t need much here.

We follow a road along this side of the river for a short while before going down another dirt road. Darkness sets in and I feel pretty tired. I didn’t sleep too well last night as the place I stayed, Camping Jolly, was a bit too jolly and my neighbours were drunkenly shouting at two o’clock. Probably should have come here yesterday instead of today. Oh well, I’ll know for next time.

The dirt road takes me into the foothills. As it’s now dark I can see them looming around to either side of me. I’m eager to get involved as I’d expected to straight away at the beginning so seeing the mountains either side of me feels like teasing.

Then the signs point left, off the road. I feel giddy as I unexpectedly turn towards the foothills rather than going straight down the middle of the valley as I was thinking I would. A few minutes later I hit the base and begin the first switchback.

Immediately it’s straight into the good stuff. I get my new running poles out. Now, people say it’s a bad idea to test out new kit during a race. These arrived while I was away, so I haven’t had a chance to practice. I’ve also never used walking poles in my life. So it’s going to be trial by error.

The ground is a bit messy and slippery as I think there has been some recent rain and there is a fair bit of cover with the trees around, so the poles do actually help. I’m not really sure what the hell I’m supposed to do with them, though so just start stabbing at the ground then hauling myself up with them.

After all of about two minutes my arms are aching and I realise that there is no point having poles if you have no upper body strength. And I never do upper body work. Oops. Oh well, I just ease off a bit and use my legs a bit more and slowly get a bit of a better balance going on.

Either way, I don’t really care. I’m climbing a frigging mountain. It’s awesome. It’s dark and I can’t see anything around me, but I’m enjoying it. I’m quickly out of breath, though, so have to tell myself to slow down a little. I don’t want to get too ahead of myself. I zig zag my way up the hill and try to sort out a rhythm.

After ten minutes or so I reach some civilisation and there are some people standing at the edge of a house who smile and say something in Italian, pointing at a bit of concrete jutting out near my bonce. I smile back and dodge the concrete as I move onto the road. To my surprise I’m at a checkpoint. The next one isn’t supposed to be until the half marathon point, so I’m quite surprised to see it. They shout for my number and I just point at my bib as I’ve no idea how to say it in Italian.

I realise my English ignorance and ask how to say it in Italian. Barate sinkay. I think. I repeat it over and over a couple of times, no idea if I’m getting it right. There is a much smaller spread on this table so I just grab a biscuit, fill my water and start moving. A woman on the other side asks where I’m from in an American accent. I say New Zealand and start moving on. It’s only after I’m already moving I realise I was actually a bit rude just stating a country and buggering off. Oh well, not much I can do about it now.

Just after, her and her husband catch me anyway so I let them past and tag along briefly, apologising and asking where they are from. She’s American and he’s Scottish. It’s nice to have a bit of a chat with some English speakers as I really wasn’t expecting to find anyone on the race. I hadn’t realised how isolated I was going to feel but do now. All part of the fun.

The path continues steadily upwards and I end up moving on a little ahead of them. I notice that on one switchback I’m about twenty metres above them as the y are directly below me on the hillside and he slips, nearly falling down the mountain. I’m suddenly reminded exactly how high up I am already. I shout down asking if they need help as I can see him on the ground but they say they’re okay. It’s deceptive climbing a mountain at night, you’ve no idea how high up you are or how steep it is, but looking down now I realise it’s actually a bit dangerous where I am. And I’m not even anywhere near the top yet. Oddly, my fear of heights seems almost gone and it doesn’t bother me, whereas only a couple of years ago I’d be terrified at this.

So I plod on ahead and the path levels out a bit. Nice. A bit of a chance to do a bit of running. I start to smash my way down the hill and catch a few other people who are being a fair bit more tentative than I am. I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do with the poles and feel a bit unnerved by them. It feels a bit like a hindrance while descending and unsafe in case I slip and need my hands.

But I don’t slip and I feel pretty good considering everything. This section is quite undulating, and opens out a fair bit as well. I get a bit of a view back towards the towns we’ve left behind. There are a lot of lights looking very small back there.

Soon enough I’m back into the forest, though, and climbing again. It feels like I’m a bit ahead of where I was expecting so I feel quite good. Back into a lot of switch backs and I feel a bit on the tired side of things again. I make sure to eat something as the poles make it a bit annoying which makes me less likely to do it.

The weather starts to take a bit of a turn and I’m really moving slowly here. I leave off from putting my waterproof on as it’s actually still fairly warm and only spitting a bit so I figure I should be alright. Not long after it takes a bit of a worse turn and I decide to stop in a rare clearing to put it on anyway, if for no reason more than as a windbreaker.

Another kilometre or so up and after passing a few more supporters who have studiously walked into the middle of the forest to see their friends pass, I reach the checkpoint. This one is under a mountain shelter of sorts. No walls, but a roof to keep things dry. Again there is a massive spread and I take a few minutes to grin and pretend I understand what is going on around me and eat as many chunks of ham and cheese as I can grab. I drink some coke and more of the sweet honey, then grab a couple of cakes and start off.

Just before I do I see notes on the side of the van they drove to get here. It says this is the second checkpoint. I don’t understand. I thought I was past that? I wander on, feeling very confused. Then I realise that the one earlier was just a water stop. So I wasn’t as far ahead as I thought. I’m actually behind where I thought. Looking at my watch the distance matches up so it should be no surprise, but it does affect me a little. My fault for not knowing and studying the course of course but it gives me a small knock.

All the same, I head back up the hill on my way. There is a long slog ahead going on the route map. A very long slog. Sounds good. I am feeling a little cold though if I’m honest. The rain is still pushing down a bit and I’m starting to feel it.

I continue climbing through the trees. It’s still enjoyable, I guess, but I’m quite out of breath. I try to slow down, but I’m really feeling pushed and daunted at this point. I head up one section then realise I’m going the wrong way. But what’s the right way? I saw two head torches moving up the mountain only a minute ago in the same direction, but the ground I’m standing on has no path. I climb a bit more and reach a path. Okay, good. Left or right? I see markers in both directions. I retrace back down.

I start to wonder if I really did see torches or if I’m just imagining it. Then ahead of me I see others coming up the hill. But I’m going down and don’t recognise the bit I’m on. None of this makes sense. I get a bit further down then see I’m in the same place. I think. I turn around and go back up the hill a second time then carry on from where I was. This makes more sense. Why would I be going down the mountain here? Then I work out I’d just cut a corner rather than go up a switchback. Finally I understand what’s going on and move in the right direction.

There are a couple of points where the path is going alongside a very steep drop, with a sign from the organisers to be careful, and as I look down the hill into the dark mist I realise this actually is quite dangerous. Best not fall.

The ascent is a bit hard going and I have a bit of a sense of humour failure here. I realise my hands are starting to blister from the poles, so get my gloves out to help stave that off. I also realise more importantly that I’m getting a bit cold. I notice that I’m also quite wet. I stick my hand in my shirt and realise my waterproof is soaked right through. No wonder I’m getting cold. How the hell am I going to carry on like this? I’m barely even beginning and it’s already turning to shit.

Again, I think about how woefully underprepared I am. I could have sorted out and reproofed my waterproof. I could have been more aware of the course. I could have done this and I could have done that, but I didn’t do any of it. Now here I am up a mountain on a wing and a prayer. I’m not upset, just a bit annoyed at myself.

I start to have one of those existential moments where I wonder what the hell the point in all this is. Why am I putting myself through all this? I’m soaked and miserable. I’m hurting, both emotionally and physically. But I tell myself to suck it up. If it’s really that bad I’ll just call it a day at the next check point. The idea of that takes the pressure off and lifts my mood again. No point being miserable, or blaming anything. Best thing to do is make the most of it.

Slowly, the path opens out a bit more as I get a bit higher above the tree line. Again, I get a good view behind me to the towns down below and even further away. I really am high up now. About thirteen hundred metres, I see as I check the altimeter on my watch. It’s a great view even though it’s the middle of the night and helps put things back in perspective. I’m in Italy, no idea what is going on r what I’m doing or supposed to be doing, completely underprepared and need to look at the funny side. It’s not miserable. This is exhilarating. Life on the edge, quite literally, I think as I look down the slope to the cliffs directly below the slippery rocks I stand on.

The path flattens and again my mood picks up further. I realise that part of my misery was the fact that my body was tricking my mind into hating it so I’d slow down. Now that there’s less incline, my mood picks up again. It’s all mental, running these things. Sometimes we remember to remain calm and objective, sometimes we don’t and settle into the subjective. I try to stay conscious of my surroundings and still my mood continues to increase.

A cross a misty scree slope, trying not to look down at the massive drop of death below me and still not feeling too worried even when I do. What will be will be. I do everything I can to stay safe on the mountain, consciously, which keeps my head level and in turn everything safer. The path undulates and weaves in and around the ridgeline up here. I enjoy this. This is what I’m used to from home. This is the terrain I train on. Wet, slippery and miserable. I’m in my element in a lot of ways. Past some more eery misty scree slopes and carefully avoiding taking too many risks along this section I reach the next aid station at thirty kilometres with a better mood.

I eat a fair bit here. After the mental battle the last section I want to take a few minutes to reset. I remember also that I carry a bin bag for emergencies. Why the hell didn’t I think of that earlier? I’m such an idiot. I get it out and, as if drunk, punch some holes in it for my arms and head. It’s a very poorly executed job, but it does work and I put it on and my bag over the top. Suddenly I feel a lot more confident about the rest of the night ahead. The cold and wet was starting to worry me. I am soaked completely through underneath, but this will stop it getting worse and will also help warm me back up as my body heat will be reflected back. It’ll be sweaty and yuck, but I couldn’t care less about the breathability right now.

One of the other guys points and laughs at me. I try to explain my waterproof is failed then realise he’s pointing at my shorts. I guess it probably is funny seeing a man in Hawaiian shorts wearing a bin bag in this weather up a mountain in the middle of the night. I see the funny side and laugh with him.

Now that I’m feeling rejuvenated I head out. I tend to try not to spend too long in checkpoints as the mental battle to leave again isn’t ever worth it and am pleased that I’m eating well and keeping to that strategy. At least I don’t have anything to worry about on that front.

The next few kilometres is a bit more of the same. More undulations. Little ups and little downs and I’m moving at a pace I feel okay with so my mood definitely remains much better. I am noticing I have some blisters forming, but there’s not a hell of a lot I can do about that right now. My shoes are soaked, so I’m guessing the tape I applied is now slipping off and causing friction. But stopping to fix it won’t help as it’s too wet for any solutions to hold and solve the problem. I’ve not brought the right things to fix something like this in this weather. Again, lack of foresight. So for now I ignore it, resolving that I’ll fix them at a checkpoint if I can.

Time passes and I continue enjoying this bit, reaching as high as fourteen hundred and forty metres and dropping up and down around there a few times. It feels now like I’m actually getting somewhere and my sense of humour isn’t doing too badly.

I do notice, however, that the first cut off is at the next checkpoint, a life base with drop bags and more supplies. It’s at two o’clock and time is ticking. I think I’m still a couple of kilometres away and its one thirty. Really? I’m that crap at this that I’m going to get timed out here?

I meet another guy with extremely limited English, better than my Italian, and we leap frog a bit before running together. We’ve appeared out of the wet forest onto a road and it’s a bit downhill so we’re hoping to be very close to the checkpoint, unsure exactly how far it  is and if we’ll make it.

The road descends into a town and we make our way through it. Then at a roundabout we go the wrong way. We end up on the other side with no idea which is correct. My watch is telling me to go back and turn, but he’s sure we go straight. We point and talk at each other and then I just go the way I think is right. He stops a car to ask directions and doubles back up a road.

I approach the road he’s now on and realise it’s a hill and I need to double back again to the roundabout. I’m a bit annoyed at this given the time sensitivity, but again let it go as there’s no point worrying about such things after the fact.

I head up the hill and catch him again a few minutes later. It’s now quarter to two with no checkpoint in sight and I get myself ready to accept defeat. We press on, running uphill for the first time in hours then he points at a big building with lights on. We’re here. With ten minutes to spare.

I ask how long I have before needing to leave again and they say I have until half past. The room is buzzing with people shouting and laughing. I’m given my drop bag and a plate of pasta on go to the long table to eat and swap gear.

This drop bag has all of a sandwich bag full of food in it. Considering the bag they supplied could fit an eighty litre back pack it’s almost comical. Yet again I see the lack of foresight in that I could really do with a fresh pair of shoes here to fix my blisters properly. Oh well, I bung the food in the boot and get on with eating my pasta.

There are still dozens of people here chatting as if at a party and I really just can’t understand why no one is bothered about the imminent cut off. Surely they must be worried? I finish my food, deliberate about the fact I should be doing more here, realise I have no supplies to do anything with and scarper out the door.

I think I must have gained about two dozen places with that quick turnaround but am still baffled why. I catch up to another guy who doesn’t seem particularly interested in talking once he realises I can’t speak Italian, which is obviously fair enough as there wouldn’t be too much point. Luckily he does call me back after a wrong turn.

I don’t know why I’m taking so many wrong turns. There is literally a flag every twenty metres at most, usually less. I’ve never seen so many but continue daydreaming rather than looking where I’m going.

There is a fairly simple but long ascent here. It’s not steep, and a lot of it is on a farm road so not even particularly hard, it’s just three or four kilometres long and I’m looking forward to the descent down off this section of the mountains. I know it’s soon.

Eventually it does come. I reach the top and realise I’m around the part of the course profile where it’s going to start getting a bit more steadily downhill. Great. I can make up a bit more of the time on that cut off. I like descending.

But it gets pretty steep pretty damn quick. Which is not particularly good for or with blisters. My feet are a bit all over the place and I notice I’m struggling to see a bit. My head torch doesn’t seem to be holding as well as it should. So I take it, frustratingly, a bit more tentatively.

I’m caught by a couple of people and step aside to let them past but they insist I go first. I don’t know why they want that, as they’re clearly moving a bit faster, but I do.

I start to feel a bit rubbish again. I start to wonder what I’m doing and what the point is. My feet are hurting quite a bit. These guys are putting me off a bit as it’s unnerving having them right behind me. I try to step aside a couple more times but they’re quite insistent I have to go first. I tell myself that I’m going to get to the next checkpoint, rush through, then down to the next one after that and call it a day.

I’ve had enough. I realise that I just don’t want to do this. I just don’t want this finish bad enough right now. I’m wet, cold and miserable. I just want to go home. It’s annoying that I had to spend all this money, fly to Italy using annual leave I just don’t have and put  myself in this situation, but hey that’s life.

I realise that right now all I want to be doing is sitting at home. I’ve spent the last year focusing so much energy into my running and I guess I’m just burnt out. I’ve had it. I’m not upset about this. Oddly, I feel quite content with this feeling. I guess because there were so many stumbling blocks contributing to me getting here at all; all I really wanted was to be able to make the decision for myself. To have a measure of control over my life as I don’t feel like I’ve been able to have much of that recently. I realise all I want is to be happy right now and I’ve been focusing all my energy into outside things in recent months and never actually looking inside at what I want.

And right now, I just don’t want this. It’s just not the right time for me. I can come back next year and do a proper job of it, putting myself on the start line in far better circumstances than today. But for right now, I’d just like to sit down in some warmth.

As before, this gives me a bit more sense of peace. A feeling that I’m in control. It removes the panic of finishing and the pressure of cut offs so that I can try to enjoy this bit. Half an hour later we hobble into the checkpoint. It’s a very quaint little stone mountain hut with a roaring open fire. Busy with loads of people. I can’t really be bothered with loads of people having been followed by the pair for the last while so I dip out quickly, again gaining several places. The idea of dropping here doesn’t cross my mind. For some reason I want to get down the mountain then make the decision. Well, I do love a downhill and was looking forward to this one for a few hours.

I’m straight back into a very steep and slippery downhill. I can barely see a path, most of the time just smashing and slipping down the hill. I think it’s only about three kilometres to the bottom and I was quite looking forward to this bit so am a bit annoyed I can’t just boss my way down it.

As my sense of humour fails once more I stop pushing and am caught by most of the people I skipped past in the hut. The tow people who were following me earlier find me again and again insist I go first. For the first time I notice their bib numbers don’t have numbers on them. They have a random word on there. They must be race officials. That must be why they are following me. Does that mean I’m last? It can’t do because there were a fair few people looking cheery in the hut and dozens in the life base before that.

They keep pressing for me to go first. My head torch is really fading now and as they are following me so damn close I keep falling over as their bright torches are casting my shadow so I can’t see where I’m going. As they’re literally only a metre or two behind permanently I find it really unnerving and try to go faster. I slip over as I’m trying to go too fast and can’t see where I’m putting my foot.

This is actually quite dangerous. The camber on this mountain is bout forty percent at a guess. I’m dropping nearly six hundred and fifty metres of ascent in only three or so kilometres. The ground is soaking wet, covered in autumn leaves and extremely slippy so I fall over again. And again. And again.

They keep patting me on the back but all I want them to do is leave me alone. The shout to the last guy to pass me to see if he speaks English. He does a bit and translates they are worried about my torch. I try to explain the issue with the shadows and they need to back off but it gets lost in translation.

We set off again in exactly the same situation. Now that I’m really pissed off I slip over constantly. If they’d back off I could see well enough but I just can’t get that across and when I think the guy has got it he plain refuses to do so, saying something in Italian, presumably about safety. I get my other torch out and that seems to appease him a little.

This really isn’t any fun. It’s four in the morning. My torch and waterproof have failed. I’m up a mountain wearing a bin bag being shouted at in Italian by two other jokers wearing bin bags. Surreal to say the least.

We go on like this all the way to the bottom over the next hour or so until we reach a road. At this point I start running again just to try to put some distance between us, but they must have only started at the life base, or are far better runners than me, and annoyingly continue joking and laughing between themselves as they casually keep up with me. It just pisses me off even more.

It’s even more frustrating that I can’t be annoyed at them. They are looking out for my safety. I’m in their country and can’t speak their language. That’s not their fault, it’s mine. If I could communicate I could find out exactly who they are, what they’re doing and what they want with me. Mainly I could find out why they won’t leave me to explore the mountain on my own as ironically that would be safer as I could control my own safety. I’d also not have shadows and could see where I’m going. But I can’t communicate and that’s my problem certainly not theirs. So I try to smile and be nice wherever possible.

We get to the bottom of the hill, go past a monstrous dam and viaduct that appears completely out of nowhere, disappearing two hundred metres below to the river. It’s truly spectacular, especially as it’s still dark and ominous.

Around the corner there is a car waiting and someone who they recognise and must be an official. Thankfully he has some English. The first thing he says, though, is that they are asking if I want to quit. Nice.

I say I don’t understand what’s going on and I’d like to carry on, on my own. I ask if I’m last and they say there is one other guy behind, who they think is quitting. I say I don’t want to. I feel like I’m being robbed of being able to make the decision for myself. The next cut off is seven hours away and I’ve plenty of time to get there.

I start off then say I’ll just wait for the last guy. I want to see what he’s doing. I guess I selfishly want to cop out and put the decision onto him to stop myself feeling bad for quitting. As if it would somehow feel better.

He arrives and is definitely quitting at the next aid station in five kilometres. We set off to the trail then out of nowhere I feel my blisters and get a gut instinct to turn around. I throw a strop and say I want to quit. I guess I just don’t want to walk it in like this.

Now they’re convincing me to carry on. Just to the next aid station. I calm down and agree. The other guy is also accompanied by two officials. The six of us set off together. They’re all chatting happily away. We get back to the road and they all have an argument about which way to go. I say that my guys are wrong that the guys above are right but they want to follow the road.

I’m ignored and eventually everyone agrees to follow the road. So now we’re walking it in and not even on the right track. My heart sinks even further and I try to set myself aside. They try to comfort me, but right now I just want to be left alone.

I’m just sulking. They are trying to be nice to me, but I just feel like there’s no point and I’d be ahead of where I am right now if I could be alone. Plus the sun has come up and the mountains look like some of the most amazing scenery I’ve ever seen, just to rub salt in the wound.

We walk into the next aid station, the other guy hands in his number and I’m asked again if I definitely want to quit as if there is any other option. If I opt to carry on I’ll have four bloody minders! It’s my fault, I have to keep reminding myself. It’s all over, and I can’t blame anyone else.

We get a ride back to Vivaro, I check into my hotel a day early, which is absolutely lovely. It’s a small but good consolation. All my clothes and even my glasses are in my drops bags up a mountain somewhere. I’m covered in mud so I take a shower and wash all my clothes, shoes included in the shower. I get into bed and lie on them to use my body heat to dry them.

The next morning I walk into town to collect my bags. Unfortunately I also see some of the last competitors coming in. I cheer them on. Fair play to each and every one of them. I go back to the hotel and have a little cry that it’s not me finishing.

The next day I head back to Venice. I have a couple more days here, but get quite ill from the cold so end up spending it entirely in bed. It gives me a bit of time to reflect.

I didn’t finish. End of. But why?

Obviously there were some circumstances out of my control. But most of them were. All of the important pieces of kit failed me. I should have checked my waterproof, made sure my torch was good enough and had fresh shoes, even clothes in my drop bags. Importantly I need to be prepared for blisters in bad conditions. I can manage the little races in the UK with blisters, but not something like this.

I need to lose weight. I need to get faster. I spent this year focusing on endurance, and believe I do have that. Next year I focus on getting faster. I won’t be getting caught by any sweepers then.

At the end of the day I can blame my torch or my circumstances, but that’s a cop out. It wasn’t the sweepers fault I was too slow, they were doing their best to help a sulking foreigner. I failed, and me alone. If I take responsibility I can fix it and come back stronger. So I do take full responsibility and will come back stronger.

I’ll beat this beast of a race next year.

Very slow tracking is here: https://www.endomondo.com/users/5020477/workouts/619350496

The Ridgeway 86: An Open Letter to my Father

Dear Dad,

It's going to be a long time before most of what has happened  has made sense, but I've written this, partly to let you know what happened while you were asleep, and partly just to let it out. It starts with a phone call...

"Hey Ben, it's Nik. Dad...Dad's had an accident.”

These are the words that echo around my head, crashing like waves into my subconscious. I approach the start line with Brian and distract myself from the soundscapes in my head. I wasn’t even planning on coming to this race, but something told me I had to. My heart is not here, but I had to. Flowers grow through rubble. So can I.

Brian says something I don't quite catch and I snap out of it. He introduced himself as I got on the train from London to Tring. I wasn’t particularly keen on company with the mood I'm in, not wanting to bring anyone else down, but he was friendly and I very quickly felt my mood turn around just from the chance to chat with someone who didn't know what was going on with me. By the time we got to Tring I was secretly thanking him for shaking me out of my funk.

The start line

There are minibuses transporting runners to the start and plenty of time to mill about before we set off from Ivinghoe Beacon at midday. This is the official starting point of the Ridgeway national trail. Today we’ll be attempting all eighty six miles of it.

That said, I’ve told myself no pressure. So if I do all of it, well, I do all of it. If I don’t I don’t. There is a short race briefing then we’re away. We saw that Dan Lawson was on the start line, who is liable to run this race extremely quick, and he charges off the front from the go. The speedier pace trickles it’s way down the field and soon enough we find ourselves going quite a bit faster than expected.

On the approach to the start a guy who recognised my shorts from a previous run in the Gower came up to say hello and wonder if I remembered him. I did and it’s a nice chance to catch up as we ran together for quite a while that day. As we reach the start line another woman who saw the shorts at the Stour Valley Path race two weeks ago also comes to say hello. I ask how she got on and she was second lady so clearly after passing me at the second checkpoint she went ahead to storm it!

Where's (the) Wally.

I now notice her not far away. We’re about a mile in. I point her out to Brian saying we should probably avoid trying to keep up with her if we’re to avoid the hurt locker early on. He agrees. There’s quite a buzz in the air and we’re swapping places with a few people here or there, finding ourselves with the guy from the Gower and one of his friends.

The starting section is quite undulating, but most of the runners just take it at a similar stride to normal flat pace, given that it’s fresh legs at the beginning here. We trade places and pair up with other people for a while and just generally chat to whoever is around. The theme of the day seems to be the good weather.

There is a lot of nervous energy and Brian’s watch is beeping at us quite often as he has the virtual pacer on, set to tell him if he’s going too fast or slow. He has it set to be halfway between a twenty hour finish and the womens course record, with the intention of holding that pace as long as possible then slowing down. Personally I’m unsure how long I’ll be able to hold that pace.

But soon enough we’re three miles, or five kilometres in and the warm up has begun. The legs are loose and the countryside is open. It’s very much an old Roman Road style trail, and very well maintained compared to what I’m used to with other races. Combining that with the fact that the trail is pretty hard packed from the good weather and you’ve got a pretty runnable trail.

The countryside is much nicer than I expected, with good views out over the county, reminiscent a little of the South Downs where you get great views over the countryside. The field thins out a little and there’s less jostling for space which means we can focus a bit more on relaxing and enjoying the day out.

It’s not actually too long before we find ourselves pulling up at the first aid station. We pushed the first ten kilometres in an hour, which feels dangerously close to how I felt at the Stour Valley Path right before I blew up two weeks ago, but it felt okay so we pressed on for the next few kilometres and I didn’t say anything.

Now that we’re here, I can feel my legs being a bit more leaden than normal, but nothing I wouldn’t expect having done a hundred kilometres so recently. We stop and Brian fills up his Tailwind nutrition bottles, I fill up mine and as he’s still getting ready I take a few moments to just grab some jaffas cakes and a slice thingie to try to shove as much food and water in as I can while I’m still feeling good an can stomach anything.

I’m thankful for the rest to be honest as well. Having pushed it a bit it’s a good chance to just stop and check through to see how the legs are feeling. We thank the volunteers then head off. We chat excitedly for a few minutes, then there is also a few minutes silence.

"Hey Ben, it's Nik..." 

No, not yet. I'm not ready for it yet. Flowers. Rubble. Remember that instead.

I break my thoughts with some toilet humour. There's nothing like a good poo joke on the trails is there? Hey look, there's even a cow poo right there.

We've lost most of the other people that were around us, but to be honest I'm fine with that. It's nice being a bit more alone out here and letting the field thin out a little.

The sun is still shining pretty bright, but after burning on the Stour and looking a little like  a baked potato I remembered sunscreen this morning so that hopefully my head is okay until the night section. It seems to be working so far.

We get to one particular climb that goes on a little bit longer than the ones before and we start to talk about our past. He's a New Yorker, so an immigrant like me, and we get to talking about what made him move and what kept him here, his family and children. With three of his own and four step-children it's interesting to hear the perspective of a man with a big family, so different from where I myself am at in life.

We reach the top, and there is a large monument. Looking closer I think it is a reference to the Boer war, but I can't see in too much detail. There is a nice path up to it then as we crest the hill there is a stunning view out over I don't even know which county.

We pass some people out for the day and see a family having a picnic. I mention the fact that I often find it strange as you see people out and about. So if you're in a race you get a lot of people cheering and clapping, so you look out for people having a picnic and keep an eye on them in case they do so, with the intention of being ready to thank them for the support.

But then if they don't support, they just stare at you nonplussed. As you stare back at them looking like you're some arrogant, attention seeking runner looking for kudos when in truth you just didn't want to be rude just in case they clapped. They look at you as if to ask what the hell you're looking at their family just a little too lingering for. If you haven't already noticed, I get a lot of time to my thoughts on the trail to over analyse and make light of these sorts of gormless situations.

We go down a big field with some rather large cows. They couldn't care less though so we go right through the middle of them. As we do so, Brian mentions after my joking that his guts aren't feeling too good.

I laugh at first then his face doesn't move and I ask if it's serious. He's not sure. Uh oh. We carry on and I just try to keep talking and fill the gap. I talk about races I've done, my thoughts on training, my thoughts on kit. Anything to help ease the strain. Get it...ease the strain? I crack myself up.

We get to another field and Brian says it's game over. He's not got any supplies so I get out my shit kit and hand some paper over. I stop briefly myself, then walk slowly down the field.

Brian arrives back a few minutes later looking a fair bit fresher than ten minutes ago and I'm pleased to hear it. He gets back to his normal chatty self, but it does seem like something is still playing on his mind. We both ignore it for now and just keep the focus on pacing. The short break was actually quite a relief as we'd not really relented on the pace at all even after saying we would.

We carry on a few more miles and then find a town, I'm not sure which. Brian's feeling it again, so affords himself the luxury of a pub toilet, where I go as well just in case as I've no idea when I'll next find a toilet, but it turns out I don't need to and I'm just a weirdo hanging out in a toilet when he doesn't need to.

We carry on again, having been passed by a few people, but I'm honestly not bothered and not too long after we find ourselves the second checkpoint in the woods.

This time I take a look at the piece of paper we were handed at registration with the checkpoint times and facilities listed on and note that we're only half an hour inside the cut off. I hear one of the volunteers mention they're only waiting on about six people or so and I wonder how the hell we've ended up so considerably far behind, as even with a couple of stops we've not been going that slow.

I decide it must be down to there being a ten o'clock start time as well, so the cut offs must be made to be loose for them early on and tight for the later starters, to then even out later in the day.

Again, I'm fairly quick at filling up and grabbing a goody bag that they're handing out, but am more than happy for a couple of minutes standing break. I feel it's important to keep myself happy and fed early on today and not be bothering about the time. It works. I feel better for the moments standing.

Brian is chatting to the volunteers and I point out the food table as he doesn't seem to be terribly keen on anything after what the Tailwind nutrition powder seems to be doing to him. I point out some solid food can't be a bad thing and he grabs some, clearly already having the same idea.

There is another pair who we've gone back and forth a couple of times with who are leaving at a similar time and we keep them roughly in our sights as they seem to be moving a lot more comfortably but slower than us currently, but we're taking more walk breaks.

We go over an overpass and there is clearly a right turn somewhere and the two pairs of us wander around a little wondering where it is, with the fields on either side of the road having paths. In the end we just opt for the road which proves right when we're rewarded with an acorn symbol on a finger post, signifying the national trail.

We swap pairs for a bit and chat to each other then as we reach another road with a confusing finger post notice Tim Mitchell, the race director, driving off and pointing us across the field, jokingly threatening a disqualification if we go down the road.

We don't, we find the spray paint arrows pointing across a freshly ploughed field and again I'm reminded back to the Stour Valley a couple of weeks ago and all the fields in that.

I take the lead over this field which is normally something I don't tend to do as much. It's not that I don't like it, I just tend to find myself wondering if the pace is too fast or too slow for the people I'm with and if others are happier in front I generally am happy for them to do so. Basically I over analyze the situation when I really don't need to.

But now I'm bossing it over this field. I don't look back until the far side when I just double take to see if everyone is still with me, which they are, spread over twenty metres or so.

We form back into pairs again and as Brian and I go through a narrow lane we see officials at the far end. I wonder what they're doing here, we're too close to the last checkpoint for this to be another one.

We reach them and say hello and it becomes apparent they're just standing sentry at a rail crossing and taking numbers. We proffer the best smile we can manage after twenty odd miles and proceed over the other side.

We're now ahead of the other chaps, but can see them just behind us. As we open out into another field that is quite sprawling we see a couple of others ahead in the distance.

It's ever so slightly uphill and we slow to a walk as the other chaps catch us. They head on and we keep the walk. We pass an extremely old lady with a bib number on and I say well done to her. I genuinely mean it. She looks like she hit seventy in the seventies and is now quite a few miles deep in this. She has quite a cheery smile back for me as I pass.

There is quite a steep hill which I press on just ahead of the chaps, now that I've finally got a bit better at uphill technique after all the practice this year.

I stop at the gate at the top and hold it open for the guys and wait for Brian. He comes up looking defeated. He tells me all the energy has left him and he thinks he's done. There's no point trying to push on feeling like this and he tells me to carry on.

I'm unsure what to do here. I've really enjoyed the company, and don't want to desert him. But at the same time, he is telling me he's had enough and he looks like he means it. Aside from that, we're pushing the cut offs and unlikely to make the next one at our current pace.

I ask firmly if he's positive this is the decision he wants to make, and whether or not it's possible it might be worth us trying to gut it out to the next one in case it picks up.  He says he's sure, and to press on and try to catch the chaps up.

With regret I shake his hand and we bid each other adieu. I feel really bad leaving him, but it's clear his decision is made. Oddly, considering my mood when we got here today, I'm feeling quite resolute that I'd like to carry on.

I do catch the guys up and tag along to the third checkpoint. Their pace is not too dissimilar to what I was doing with Brian so it's not too bad a switch, though my legs are feeling a bit leaden. I think having done a hundred kilometre race two weeks ago may not have been the wisest move, with the soreness setting in quite early today at around ten miles. 

That said, it feels like that's important training at this point. It's not going to make me faster, slower if anything, but this year my focus has been solely on endurance. I used to be faster, but there's not point in fast if you DNF every race is there? Well, that's what I found at my last DNF, anyway.

So I listen to my body, I feel it creak a little and I just let it go. I let myself enjoy what I'm doing. We hit the next checkpoint around a marathon in. This one doesn't have as massive selection, but there are all the necessary bits and importantly some coke which I knock back along with a few other bits and bobs. I let the marshal know Brian's number and tell them he's fine but may be a little late just so they don't worry.

This time, stopping, I really do feel it in my legs. It doesn't bother me, it's just earlier than normal, which is fine. We just stand there a minute to stop and laugh at each other, then set off again.

The first thought is how close we are. We've gained ten minutes and are now forty minutes up on the cut off. It does a bit of a number on all of our heads as none of the three of us feel like we've been going that slow at all so we can't understand why there are only a handful of people behind us.

No matter, though, we press on. The short stop has given me a fair bit of a boost. I didn't really realise how much I was feeling it and looking forward to a stop after the slightly slower pace which then picked up when I started running with these fellas.

I think of Brian and hope he's okay, he seemed to be accepting of the decision but it's never a fun one to take. Apparently, that Tailwind nutrition really lives up to its name.

We take the pace ever so slightly easier for a bit. One of the boys is starting to feel it in his legs a bit and seems to have taken a bit of a turn as far as mood goes, but personally I'm more than happy to keep this slower pace and save the energy for later on, even if it does put me into the position of chasing cut offs. Right now I couldn't care less.

We start to talk about how we're feeling about the day and I mention I'm quite unbothered. My feeling yesterday was to not even turn up, but I knew it was also about family and staying strong, so turned up. Now I'm feeling like I've done okay, nearly fifty kilometres, so the pressure is off.

I can quit anytime I like from here on in and not feel bad. I say this out loud, but conscious of the fact it's always good to keep as upbeat a mood as possible, I point out that feeling like that means that I feel alright and am actually enjoying myself a fair bit more than I would be otherwise. Basically, thinking about quitting is helping me not follow through and do it. The psychology of a runner eh? Or maybe it's just me.

"Hey Ben, it's Nik. Dad...Dad's had an accident. He took a downhill too fast and he's hit his head."

There's a long pause and I can hear him crying. I'm jolted back to five in the morning a week ago. Friday the twenty first of August to be exact.

"He's just gone in for emergency brain surgery. We don't know what's going to happen."

My world came crashing down in that moment a week ago.

As we're walking an uphill, I let it out and explain the situation to Sam, though I don't go into too much detail. I don't want to cry on the trail here. Not yet. I need to stay strong. So I just mention it, and explain that's why I'm feeling the way I am about this race right now. We move on to another topic.

We make our way further and further along, just keeping a steady pace to try to maintain our energy whilst not dropping too far behind. As we're going through a field, about to start another climb, the other chap says in a very determined voice that's it, he's had enough and he's going to drop at the next station.

We try to coerce him into changing his mind, telling him it may be worth just resting at the checkpoint and deciding there, but he's resolute that he's not enjoying things and would rather make sure he can get home at a normal time and live to run easy another day sooner rather than later. He seems definite so we don't argue the point with him.

Soon enough that aid station arrives at the top of another hill, and he sticks to his word asking if he can get a ride to the halfway point so his wife can pick him up. I tell Sam I'm unsure what to do as well, thinking I may do the same.

If I drop now I can get a lift to halfway, Goring-on-Thames, and manage to get the last train home. If I don't it's going to be a lot more tricky. I tell Sam I'm going to sit for five minutes and he's happy to wait. I grab a date and oat cake thing, which is great, and a couple more jaffa cakes and coke and sit with chappie number two, who ask what I'm doing. 

I again say I'm unsure then when Sam comes over I tell him we may as well head off. Snap decisions are the best in these situations, they get you out the door. I'm going to have to go to Goring anyway as that's where my bag is. So I may as well run and decide there. It's twelve miles this stretch, which is part of what was holding me back as mentally that's quite a jump, so I'm glad to be back on the road quickly.

My legs are extremely stiff on getting up again, but there's a nice little road section so the creaks and groans ease their way out and Sam and I find our rhythm again. We both mention how surprised we were at how quickly the other fellow dropped as he seemed to be vaguely not enjoying it but nothing you can't work through. I guess the thing is, after fifty odd kilometres the thought of another ninety doesn't really appeal too much.

But we're out of the checkpoint and mentally this is quite a big boost. I knew that was going to be one of the harder ones and it's done now. Sam goes in front a fair bit now and keeps himself, and me, going with a pretty good pace. A much better one than I would have managed on my own.

We talk at times but we also have quite long stretches to ourselves, for me just content in the fact that we're moving along at a good clip. The night starts to draw in a bit and we do quite a long stretch along Grims Ditch, which is quite nice through some woods.

I think of home a bit at this point. I think of what I saw when I went back to Christchurch after the earthquakes and I remember the day a couple of years later, when people were finally allowed back into the central city, I stood there by the 'Hak', the nickname for the place we used to hang out as teenagers, trying to figure out where exactly it was amongst the rubble. Hours, years even I spent here and now I couldn't even tell exactly where it was.

I remember searching around all the streets of my youth, unable to fully understand which road I was on, as there was just holes in the earth where the buildings and landmarks used to be. I searched, to work out where the Hak was and found the tree that was next to it, still growing strong. It had lived a long time before the earthquakes and stands strong today. I remember looking at my feet and seeing a small flower poking out of the rubble and reminding myself that adversity is only our downfall if we let it be. I can choose to look at the rubble in life or I can choose to look at the flowers coming through.

I trip over a tree root and nearly go flying. The light has dimmed considerably. We're kind of bumbling about in the forest not really able to see what we're doing. We both mention it may be time for head torches but neither of us grab for one.

It's preferable to leave it as long as possible, but it's definitely getting close. We start chatting again, I check in to see how he's feeling and it's good, and I'm actually still feeling about the same, which suggests I'm running within my means and can't be a bad thing.
Another trip up and it's definitely time for the head torches to come out. We're getting closer and closer now and the section is going by pretty well. Another mile gets ticked off and we're still just keeping the same pace.

We've been going steadily for about ten miles now on this stretch without any real walk breaks, so I can start to feel my energy levels get low. I reach in my bad for another of the little packets of chicken goujons I've brought then find the apple turnover I forgot about and get that out instead.

It does the trick. I'm surprised at how well I've been eating today. At each aid station I've got at least a bit of food down and have been steadily getting through the reserves I brought as well one little bit at a time. I brought quite a variety this time, with chocolate bars and Pepperami topped off by Babybells.

The head torches are well and truly coming into their own by the time we start to see the lights that suggest we're nearing the checkpoint. We reach a massive river and it takes me a couple of minutes to even register this is the Thames. There's a massive overbridge we go under, eery at night and then the lights start to get that little bit closer until we're back on roads and moving through the outskirts of the town. Then we go down a lane and pop out at the main road to see high-vis vests and a welcoming building.

It's the first checkpoint that’s inside, so we grab our drop bags and take a pew at a trestle table. We're offered hot food and I don't have to be asked twice before a jacket potatoes with beans and cheese is laid in front of me. They've taken my water bottles to fill up and I start getting to work at transferring my stuff, swapping out for my better head torch and replenishing for the same amount of food reserves as I left the start line with.

I take a break and redo the tape on my feet, which are looking worse for wear, but no blisters and swap shoes from the Inov8 Race Ultra 290's to the Skechers GoRun Ultra's. After that I try to cram as much food in my gob as I can while Sam is getting ready as well then we're ready to go.

We’re away before I even get a chance to remember I was going to quit here, but in truth it was never really going to happen anyway. Once you’ve had a sit down and fresh gear and food it’s always easy to carry on and we set off at quite a good pace, happy and chatty again.

I feel pretty well rejuvenated after taking such a good break that it almost feels like we're starting fresh again. It's definitely well into the night now so there isnt a hell of a lot to see, but it feels good to be on the move again and over that mental barrier of wondering whether or not I'd be able to carry on after the halfway point. Now I don't have that easy option to leave again. Now maybe I'll finish? Who knows.

We chat intermittently, but mostly we're both happy to just chug along and get the miles moving. I'm secretly pretty glad to have found Sam as I likely wouldn't have bothered carrying on otherwise.

"Hey Ben, it's Nik. Dad's had an accident. He fell off his bike and hit his head."

I look around me and there is only darkness. The demons rear their head out of nowhere and I fall behind a little to mask how I'm feeling. I just take a moment to let myself remember what's going on and why I'm here. The point I'm trying to make. To myself, mainly, but to my family too. I try to stay strong. I try.

The next section goes pretty smoothly for us without too much issue. We chat, we walk and we run as well. Sam is still keeping a cracking pace. Very solid, not speeding up or slowing down and I just tag along for the ride. It's going so smoothly that we find ourselves at the next checkpoint at Bury Down after what feels a fairly short time. I put the demons back to rest for now.

I've been pretty keen for the checkpoint for a while. Mainly, I'm keen to use the toilet, so when we see it appear I'm pretty quickly alerted to the fact that won't be happening in a hurry. Basically, the checkpoint is a pagoda in a field. Being dark, I can't even work out how the hell they got the stuff here as it literally seems to be in the middle of nowhere but hey, I'm not complaining. Free food, I'll take that. There is even a runway made of glowsticks to welcome us in.

There are some seats and one guy looking decidedly like he is going to drop out. He even has the blanket of death on. That's right, he's opened up the foil safety blanket. He looks okay, but I'm guessing it's his mind that's going. I can relate.

So I opt not to sit down and just eye up the food. Sam is keen to be gone quickly but I hoof down some potatoes dipped in a little too much salt and give my best lemon-face. A quick cup of soup and we're on our way again.

I'm quite glad that the checkpoint is set up the way it is as it has everything you need without the comfort, being out in the open, meaning you can't easily relax and quit. A perfect balance, so I don't quit and it only briefly enters my mind.

The next checkpoint is Sparsholt Firs, about nine miles away. It's quite a big gap but the hardest part is always leaving the checkpoint and we've done that. The guy who has the foil blanket on comes up behind us and starts chatting and it's nice to have the extra company.

Over the past checkpoint I developed my speedy walking pace a bit more, meaning that I can sort of shuffle and sort of wobble to a level where I'm keeping almost the same pace as if I were running.

I mention to the new guy this is roughly the pace we're managing to keep and he says he wishes he could keep up with such a good pace. I tell him it's not me, it's Sam. A few minutes later though we do notice him drop off.

We settle back into a rhythm once more and just get cracking. For the last section we were almost on our own the entire time, but now we find we're starting to catch up with people.

The normal thing to do is to build a buffer it seems and then when nighttime hits, you just slow to a walk for the whole evening until you pick the pace up again in the morning. Kind of like the way the natural body clock works, you go to a similar tune.

Not us tonight, though. We keep pretty much the same pace right through this section  this is one massive benefit to having gone a bit slower earlier in the day and paced it better, we're actually feeling like we still have a fair bit of energy. This also means that some of those people who went off really fast, are now starting to feel it and slow down a bit more. So where before we were nearly last, despite feeling good, and not understanding what was going on, now we're starting to pick people off as the evening catches up with them more.

In truth though, I still know it's Sam carrying me through. I mention it but he's very diplomatic about it saying it's a team effort. It's definitely not though.

The pace stays steady enough, though, that we get to Sparsholt Firs without me moaning too much. I definitely am starting to feel a lot more tired here though and sit down.

The checkpoint staff ask if I want anything and I say I'm fine for the minute. I almost instantly start to freeze. I ask for some coke and a bit more food, just a couple of nibbles and am brought more soup.

I can feel it, though. I feel the tiredness creep up on me and I feel the lethargy creep in. I ask how long Sam wants to stay and he says he's happy to chill for a bit but maybe not too long.

I'm shivering so much that they grab me a duvet and everyone is chatting away. There are a good dozen of us under the pagoda now and someone shouts out that it's the kiwi guy again and well done for carrying on. He was with a woman earlier who recognised the shorts, who hadn't met me, but had read my blog.

I don't recognise him too well, I've been in my own world a bit today but clearly it's no secret I've been talking of dropping like a sissy at every checkpoint. If I had a reason it would be fine, but not being in the mood is clearly just me being a sissy.

But right now, you know what, I don't care. I am a sissy and I'm going to drop here. I send my brothers a message, as they've been following me on the tracker to tell them I'm out.

Right now I'm so tired that my head is lolling from side to side, I can barely hold it up and I just don't care.

"Hey Ben, it's Nik. Dad's had an accident."

I just don't want to do this right now. I want to be strong for my family, who really need me, if not in body but in spirit and resolve, but if I'm entirely honest right now I just don't want to. It seems so strange. This is a race completely unrelated to my situation with Dad, but I guess I wanted to come here today to remind the family that even though times are tough, we still have to stay positive and fight through adversity. We can beat it if we don't let ourselves be beaten first.

I want to go home, though. I just...I just don't want to be strong. I want to be able to cry and I want to let what's happened a week ago just dissappear. I don't want to be an adult, I want my dad and I want him to come and fix everything.

But he can't. And I can't do what I want, and I'm not embarrassed when I tell Sam to go on ahead and that I am dropping out. He goes, reluctantly, but he goes. We wish each other well and I'm pleased to see him head off looking strong.

Tom sends me a message spurring me on, followed by Nik, only he doesn't send a message to me, he copies and sends back the message I sent to Dad a week ago.

''Hey Dad,

You've given us all quite a scare. When I was about to finish a race I remember you telling me no matter what to keep pushing, to crawl if I had to. I've seen you physically crawl over finish lines before and we need you to keep that resilience. Come on, Dad, it's time to crawl this one in. Keep going. Keep strong. I miss you. I love you"

When I sent that message, I wish I could say it was about a race. It wasn't. When I sent that message all we knew was that dad's head was split open after a crash at very high speed on a mountain in Ecuador and that they, the neurosurgeons, were trying to do something to fix it. When you hear something like that, you think the worst. We couldn't expect much more. No one lives through that sort of damage. When I sent that message, as far as I was aware, Dad would never read it and I was just hoping for a miracle.

When I sent that message I was asking him not to die.

So when Nik sent it back to me it did something. It thumped me, right in my heart. The foil man has arrived a while ago and sat down next to me. He gets up and is about to carry on and I just get up to join him. He looks surprised after seeing me wobbling and whingeing in my chair looking defeatist. He asks if I'm going to join him and I tell him I am. A minute later we're off.

I don't explain why the sudden change, and I don't really need to, I just start moving again and we are just happy to get down to business. He's quite excited about the fact he managed not to drop and I'm suddenly determined. It's now four in the morning and we're a bit over a hundred kilometres deep into this thing.

A message from Dad's friend on the race.

I start to think I might actually finish. I think about why I'm here and suddenly my mood has changed in vast amounts. I'm chatting away as if it's the beginning of the race, so much so that we miss a turn and I end up leading us two hundred metres in the wrong direction, but we're so excited to have got out of the checkpoint neither of us care.

It turns out he was also at the SVP 100 a couple of weeks ago, but did the opposite and went for the later start, unfortunately not quite being quick enough to stay ahead of the cut offs. He's also doing the Ring O Fire race next weekend which I also briefly toyed with, but decided against as it's a hundred and thirty five miles over three days, and I'm already feeling burnt out.

We see a frog in the road and it looks quite eery in the darkness. I'm pretty desperate for the toilet, and with the sun about to come up I decide it's probably best to do so now while I still have a bit of privacy so I duck off for a couple of minutes, then spend a few more running to catch up.

As we were leaving the last checkpoint, Josh, as he's now introduced himself as, said he was keen to just walk most of it in, and given the mood I'm in I'm quite happy to follow suit with him on that. I just want to finish. Overcome. Beat the demons. Beat adversity.

We settle into a little bit of running and a lot bit of walking and just try to keep talking to take out minds of what's going on. The sun slowly comes up and once again we're treated to views of the lovely English countryside.

Dawn is one of the marvels of ultra running for me. It's such a surreal feeling when you've been going, for however many hours, through the slump of the night and then suddenly get this euphoric rush when the new day greets you and the birds begin to sing. Because of my head space today I find it hard to enjoy it the same way as I normally would but I make sure at a couple of points to just stop and look out and try to remember not just to be insular but also to look outside of my own world and see what is happening in the world around me, and to take in my surroundings. See the dawn and embrace it. A new day is arriving and with it, hope.

It's been very easy over the last day to not do that. To not look out. To see the glass half empty and want to smash the full one, and I'll be honest that I'm not entirely successful in reminding myself to look at the positive. I can look at the mud and puddles on the ground or I can look at the frog hopping happily along through it. I try to look at the frog. Flowers grow through rubble. I need to remember that.

The mud makes me realise, though, that I need another toilet break. It's not urgent, but it does start to worry me that's it's only been half an hour since I dug a cat hole in the ground. If I get seventy five miles deep into this thing, through all these mental barriers I've put on myself, only to then have to pull out because I feel like crapping myself I'm going to be mighty upset. So I go and sort it out, then run to catch Josh up.

We reach the penultimate checkpoint and it's a nice bright day. They have a pit fire going and smiles aplenty. We sit down for a few minutes and I try to eat what I can, but I'm not massively hungry as for the first time ever I've been able to eat lots and consistently throughout the race.

The gap to the next checkpoint is about twelve miles, so is mentally a tough one to get my head around and to not want to drop, but the sun is out and it feels good. With only twenty seven kilometres left I think this is possible and for once I don't think I want to drop.

A few more minutes and we're back on the road. The conversation is not quite as flowing as before and my feet are definitely starting to hurt a fair bit more, but the easier pace makes the going not too bad. There is definitely a lot more swearing going on from both of us though, and increasingly more offensive. Luckily there are only cows out here to complain.

We catch up with the lady who calls me the kiwi guy from the blog, and her friend. As I'm slightly ahead I get chatting to her a bit. They've been running together for nearly the whole race but he is struggling with blisters and she is starting to worry about him.

We're fine in terms of the cut offs but only if we keep moving at a reasonable pace. She's worried that her friend won't be able to keep up with that pace. The four of us bounce back and forth a little spread out for a few minutes, then Josh and I move ahead slightly.

We keep the pace easy and the swearing fairly continuous. As Josh did the Race to the Stones last year, an event that takes in the last hundred kilometres of the Ridgeway he's remembering the route here or there. As it was a year ago, though, it starts to do a number on his head as he keeps remembering a pylon and directions around it that just doesn't seem particularly forthcoming, and is really confusing him. I haven't got a clue either way so I just go with it.

There is an extremely long straight uphill section here and, whilst it's not a massive gradient, we definitely feel it on tired legs, so are pleased to reach the top and what we expect to be the checkpoint, only to find its not there on the road. Cue more swearing.

Then sure enough, we round a corner and make it to the final checkpoint. I'm feeling pretty good right now and there is only another ten kilometres to go. That last section was long, but as it wasn't through the night, it didn't feel as long as it could have and we're both grinning like wildcats as we say hello to the aid station staff.

Then they ask if we want a hot dog and oh-hells-yeah we do. I wolf that mofo down and its a right pick me up. I down a couple of cups of coke and then the lady of the pair we passed a while ago arrives in tears.

The whole thing is just emotionally quite a lot for her and to be honest I can relate. In a bizarre way seeing someone really struggling but really determined to finish gives me more strength.

I guess at this point I'm learning a bit that I draw a lot of strength from those around me. Not necessarily physically right next to me, but also spiritually and today in a lot of ways I'm blessed enough to have both.

So when Josh cheekily asks for another hot dog I do the same, then we're off. We're given the directions that we're to continue on the Ridgeway until we get to a fork whereby we take a right turn into the finish and with that we're away.

The final stretch. A day ago, I really didn't think I had it in me to even get past the first checkpoint and here I am doing it. I'm going to get to the finish and in all honesty it has nothing to do with me, it has all to do with the people around me. Both physically and in spirit.

Today, I managed to spend the whole day running with very different people, all of whom were amazing at keeping me motivated and enjoying the physical side of the race, and I was lucky enough to have the support of my brothers among others.

The conversation is still there but a lot of it is grunts now. We're both really happy to be about to finish, but the long straight road is playing a little on my head and the ruts in the ground are playing on Josh's body. But we keep ourselves motivated and pushing on.

We're passed by a trio of fellas but neither of us care at all. We're just moving on, enjoying the day. We go over another hill then Josh points into the distance and tells me he think we just follow this straight road for another few kilometres then turn right to where he's pointing and find the finish. So basically, the end is quite literally in sight.

We plod on, even jogging a little here or there then as we're going down another little hill I see the sign to indicate the turn off to the finish.

"Hey Ben, it's Nik. Dad's had an accident."

I get a message from Nik and it's a photo of Dad laid up in hospital, bald and frail with tubes coming out of him. I'm in front of Josh at this point and it all hits me again. I break down and I'm not ashamed to say I start to cry. For me, running has never been about fitness, it's been about overcoming the demons in my head. It's transposing the spiritual hardship we all go through into a physical context, squaring up to it and saying "Fuck you, I'm the boss today. You won't get the better of me."

I think of Dad, and wonder where he is and what's going on in his head. On the evening of that same Friday, Tom called me to tell me that he wasn't going to die, that he had come through the surgery and they were expecting a full recovery. I then called my Grandma to let her know that she wasn't going to bury her son that day. Before I could get anything out I just broke down on the phone to her, not able to say anything for what seemed like an age but was probably only sixty seconds. I don't think I've ever cried in front of Grandma and I'm not sure she knew what to do with a grown man bawling down the line to her.

Apparently when Dad opened his eyes he was told his sons we're thinking of him and he smiled before going back to sleep and it's that thought that comes back to me now. The last week has been by far the worst of my life, but he is awake now and starting to talk a little.

Dad was doing a cycle race from the top to the bottom of South America, and was going downhill when he hit a pothole and all of our lives changed forever. Nik flew out to see him and the reason I set up the tracking for me on this race is so that he can follow along with Dad and keep the family racing alive. To show that the Kissel's can be knocked but not beaten no matter how hard we fall. Nik sends me a message to tell me Dad is willing me on now that I'm nearly there.

We take the right turn and go down the hill. We hit the bottom then go over another little one and find ourselves running past the historic stone circle, along the lines of Stonehenge though not quite as majestic, and we're both pretty jubilant as we reach the town and various people are cheering us on.

We hit the final straight and the organisers actually pick up the banner normally reserved for the winner, Josh grabs my arm and we raise them to the sky as we grab the tape, eight six long miles done, our medals, and for me a huge amount of personal humility and respect for these fragile lives we live.

Dad, the day before the accident.

A week after the race I got in touch with Tim Mitchell, the Race Director, to talk about my medal. I was planning to get it cut up into three pieces, one each for you, Tom and Nik, but I wanted to get the official lanyards so I got in touch. I didn't explain why, and mentioned I wanted to pay for it and thought it may be forgotten as such plans usually are, but the very next day three more lanyards arrived in my mailbox. With a second medal. Tim had liked what I was doing and sent me a second one. The aftercare on this race was amazing to say the least (Thanks again Tim, you can see now why it meant so much). 

So, Dad, that's the end of my story, for now. At the time of writing most of this, it's a week further along. I'm currently on a plane nearly in Lima, Peru. I'll be honest, I'm very scared of what I'll find. Nik says it's okay now, that you feel better, but like Samson, you've has always been known for your hair and strength despite being a small man. I know it's going to be one of the hardest moments of my life to see you stripped of that.

I don't fully know what the future holds for our family, but I do know that we may have taken a tremendous knock but we will not be beaten. We will take this and make it something positive. As hard as this is I am doing my best to remember that flowers do grow through rubble. And when the times are dark, make sure you do, too.

For anyone else reading, if you've got this far, please, please go and tell your family you love them.

For you, Dad, I do love you.

Benjamin