Men or machines?

Men or machines - finishing in style

This entry will be very different from all of the other blogs so far. For a start, I'll come straight to the point. It rained, we did it, it hurt. We finished in 20 hours and 38 minutes, making us the 61st fastest team out of 544 entries. The blog will also be different in that I seem to be quite incapable of summoning the glib, self-mocking story-telling style that runs through the other entries. It's now Sunday evening and  I am sitting with my feet up, trusty G&T on one side, peanuts on the other and every time I think about what we went through in the last 48 hours, my eyes fill with tears, I choke with emotion and I can't speak. It's like all the protective layers of humour, bravado and self-mockery have been stripped away and I am left raw and defenceless. I gave it everything; we all gave it everything and there is nothing I can do to keep my emotions in check. I have had glimpses of this feeling before; when I cycled for 18 hours from London to Swansea; when I cycled the Etape du Tour, finishing at the top of Alpe d'Huez; when I did a half Ironman. But none of those come close to how I feel now. Perhaps if I describe the event in the kind of detail that has been missing from my descriptions of the training sessions this will put it in context.





Michael fiddling with his kit


The event started on Friday afternoon, with the 4 of us coming together from various corners of southern England; Michael and I travelled together from London, meeting Martin at the finish point in Brighton to drop Martin's car and gear for the finish. We then drove to the start near Petersfield where we met John and his wife Sam and son Jack at the campsite with a number of other competitors. The lovely English summer's day gradually gave way to the not so glorious English summer's evening, but there was a good, light-hearted atmosphere as we registered, got ourselves organised and shared a bottle of wine and a few beers. We turned in pretty early and it really only struck me how nervous we all were when I lay in my sleeping bag completely wide-awake with my mind running around in circles, fretting about the routine for the morning. I was sharing a tent with Michael and I could tell he was nervous as he fidded endlessly with his kit until in my usual polite way I asked him what the f**k he was doing and he realised it was just nervous displacement activity and got into his sleeping bag. None of us got much sleep, a couple of hours maybe, as the rain came down in the night. It was something of a relief when our 'wake-up' call came at 4.30. The next hour and a half was a frantic race to get everything packed and into the car for Heledd to collect later and get to the start line at 6.00. It was now raining steadily and Sam had already been heard using the words 'again' and 'never' in close proximity.



We lined up at the appointed hour; the Gurkha's commanding officer gave us a quick pep talk and the traditional Gurkha bagpipes (?) struck up as we set off. The really speedy teams who run the whole thing disappeared off into the distance and the rest of us quickly settled into a pace amongst other groups of similar abilities. We were walking at around 6km per hour and despite the continuous rain, the first 2 checkpoints seemed to pass pretty quickly. John confessed a little later that as we crossed the start line, his sciatic problem kicked in and his hip was grinding away really from the off. I too quickly realised that the shin problem I had set off in training a fortnight ago was far from ok and likely to be a problem from early on. Nonetheless, we pushed on to the third checkpoint where Heledd, having retrieved my car with assistance from Paul, was waiting with hot soup, snacks and changes of clothing. None of us was really suffering by this point, but seeing a familiar face, the feeling of re-fuelling and renewing gave us all a lift.




Team at CP 3. Wet but cheerful

 We passed though the fourth checkpoint, pausing just to banter with the ever-friendly and hugely encouraging Oxfam and Gurkha organisers. The walk to the fifth checkpoint seemed to take just that bit longer and although the rain finally halted, we met Sam and Jack there having completed the first half of the event in just 9 hours. I know now that I wasn't alone in feeling somewhat daunted by what lay ahead; by now we had travelled further than any of us had managed in training, we were pretty much soaked through and we were tired. Worse, though, the aches and pains of having been on the go for 9 hours were beginning to make their presence felt. By the time we reached the next checkpoint, all of us started the running repairs as soon as we had grabbed a cup of tea. John and Michael hit the medical tent for some blister treatment and Martin cracked out the Ibuprofen gel which I had been slathering on my shin since checkpoint 2. For the first time, getting up and getting going again was really hard; not just psychologically, but literally. My legs were starting to seize up, the soles of my feet were swollen and sore, my ankles and knees felt as though the bones were grinding together and my thigh muscles front and back were rigid. For the first 100 meters or so, it was an effort just to move, but gradually everything eased as I warmed up and we were soon moving at a reasonable pace again.

We were on familiar territory now, covering the same stretch that we covered on the single day we trained together. We knew what was in store; two slightly shorter sections, with some quite sharp ups and downs, followed by a morale-sapping 14km stretch to checkpoint 9 in the dark. I thought that knowing the stages might make it easier, but I knew when we arrived at checkpoint 7 that I was in trouble. The pain in my legs had now reached such a point that every aspect of making another stride forward hurt. My heels, blistered and battered, the balls of my feet, tenderised so that every pebble felt like standing on a nail; my toes, blistered and squashed; my ankles, arthritic and unable to stop me stumbling on the uneven ground; my shin, so long providing ambient discomfort, now sending shooting pains up my leg with each stride; my thighs aching and weak. We still had 30km to do, just under one third of the distance and it was now getting towards dark, with the temperature dropping. We saw Sam and Jack again at 7 and the enormous emotional lift and encouragement was wonderful.






 

The distance from 7 to 8 was a little shorter than average, but it seemed to drag. Each of the sections was just that little bit harder than I remembered them, with the toil up to the checkpoint itself, past the 1km to go marker seeming interminable. My sister Emma and my father were due to meet us at 8 with some hot food and snacks and even thinking about seeing them made me start feeling emotional, so as soon as they saw us and came bounding over, I was struck dumb, choking back tears of pain, hugging my sister and my lovely niece Jemima tightly and trying not to cry. We took on some wonderful food; Emma had prepared some hot chicken wraps which had a spiciness that cut through the sugar-sweet sickliness of all of the energy bars and gels that by now I was heartily fed up with. We paused for a little longer than we should have, but by now I think we all knew that thoughts of a finishing time were secondary to just finishing; and even now, with 20 km still to go and in a world of pain that still had 6 more hours to run, we knew we would finish. In jest, Emma pointed out the sleeping figure of Ted in his car seat and asked if I wanted to call it a day and I realised that nothing in the world would stop me now; yes it was hurting, yes there was still a long way to go, but like the Terminator, I had no choice. There's a line in the first film where Kyle Rees is trying to get through to the incredulous Sarah Connor about the danger she is in and he says; 'That terminator is out there. It can't be bargained with. It can't be reasoned with. It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever, until you are dead.' This became our mantra, repeated at frequent intervals. I also received a timely motivational message from my business partner and friend, Paul; 'Pain is just weakness leaving the body. Welcome it, because with each scrap of pain, you are getting stronger and stronger. Welcome the pain, enjoy the pain. The more it hurts, the stronger you get. You can walk to the moon, so these south coast hills are a minor irritant to be bested.' Corny? Amusing? Maybe. But guess what, even now when I read that again now, it still makes my eyes fill with tears.

So off we set, four machines, grinding out the miles, putting one foot after the other again and again, hour after hour, ignoring the pain. Stage 9 was the longest stage, not too demanding in terms of hills, but long and boring. Night fell, with a beautiful sunset bathing the rolling green countryside, the clouds now broken up and soaking up the deep red dying rays of the sun. Our footing became less certain as we stumbled into stones, bruising our already painful toes. With agonising slowness we ticked off the miles, passing the most desolate support point where a small group of Gurkhas, in the middle of nowhere, manned a water stop. Eventually we started the descent from the gallops on top of the downs towards the back of Lewes prison and I knew that we were getting close to Kingston Hollow, the 9th checkpoint and the end of the section we had completed in our training some weeks ago. From here, just the final 10km. I did a final sock change then we all got our heads down and pressed on. The routine which had emerged over the hike was that 2 of the others would move slightly faster, with the remaining one walking at my somewhat slower pace. I don't know if the guys had a quiet word out of my earshot and agreed that they would take it in turns to walk at my pace, or if they even had to say it, but I am embarrassed at quite how grateful I was that they did.

The long, steep hill from the checkpoint was nowhere near as hard as I thought it would be; the pain had sort of levelled out and whilst I couldn't wholly shut it out, I was now in what I called 'perma-plod' mode, where I just watched the beam of my torch on the ground and moved one leg, then the next and so on, never varying the pace, landing with as little force as possible with each step. We had a few small difficulties finding the route to the final checkpoint, way off the road, tucked into a valley just north east of Brighton. We could see the bright lights from a distance but finding the path was a little more difficult. We had made the decision not to stop here with just 5km to go, not because we didn't want to, but because now even the slightest pause meant renewed agonies as we got going again. The climb out of the checkpoint was longer and steeper than expected, but was now just frustrating rather than demoralising. We were getting into the very outskirts of Brighton and the orange glow of city lights and, although the 3km to go sign took an age to arrive, we were now getting closer and closer to the finish. I raised my head occasionally to see if I could glimpse the racecourse, but hadn't really allowed myself to think about the end at all.

Suddenly, having seen no other groups for some time, we caught up with 2 other groups and our tight band of 4 mingled temporarily with people who had been through the same experience, the same torment and who were now within spitting distance of the finish. The legs that I had dragged so painfully for so long suddenly shook off the exhaustion, my mood which had been silent or laconic, stubborn determination for so long, suddenly lifted and I was able to catch up the few yards to my team mates as we entered the racecourse perimeter. John, limping from badly swollen ankles but still laid back and smiling. Michael, surprisingly sprightly and shrugging off the painful blisters and Martin, quietly authoritative and in apparently good shape. As I caught them up, the urge suddenly struck me to run past them, just as a joke. I intended to stop just after passing them, but instead I turned and called for them; 'Come on you lazy bastards, why are you walking.' As one, they sprung foward and we closed up into a tight formation, John and I in a front rank with Michael and Martin right behind, in step. The feeling of being with a close-knit team, guys I'd barely known before this but who I had now been through the fire with, bunched together as we jogged the final few hundred yards, gave us all an enormous shot of adrenaline. We passed one or two spectators and other competitors, cheering us and clapping in disbelief as we ran past. The course opened up and we moved into line, four abreast as the finish line came into sight.

A very welcome sight



 

Running to the finish

We checked our pace to make sure we were in line and were into the final few meters, guide tapes funnelling us towards the line, the finish banner clearly visible now. The cheering from the supporters, Gurkhas and organisers, as they saw us coming in, rose to a crescendo; we linked hands and came across the line with our arms raised in triumph. A sea of smiling faces, clapping and an absolutely overwhelming surge of emotions; total relief, elation, a complete sense of release as the gritty determination we had held so close for so long just spilled over in tears and smiles of elation. My father, as I knew he would, had come to meet us at the end, at 2.30am. Sam, who had endured the same lousy night's sleep in the tent and Jack were there too. I hugged my father and Sam at the same time, completely overcome and completely overjoyed. Without question the hardest thing I have ever done and the most extraordinary feeling at the end. Even now, a day on, I can still feel that surge of adrenaline and emotion as I think of crossing the line and, looking at these words, I am frustrated at their lack of ability to describe what it really felt like. We were presented with medals and photographed on a sort of podium, arms around our team mates, before heading off for a very welcome Gurkha curry and cup of tea.



Medals all round

There was a bit of kit admin before heading off; I was heading to a  comfortable bed at Emma's house, dropping Michael to get the first train back to London. Sam drove John back to Hereford and Martin got a massage and a few hours sleep in the tent before driving himself back to Cambridge. I hobbled into the shower at 4.45 am, having been on the go for 24 hours on the back of a 2 hour sleep, but when I lay down in bed, already completely seized up, my mind was still racing. How ironic,  I thought to myself, I am now going to struggle to go to sleep. And that was the last thing I remember until I was woken several hours later with a cup of tea.



Will we do it again? Never say never, but I don't think so. I don't care about getting a better time; I don't think there were many 'veterans' ahead of us. I don't think you could replicate that feeling of relief and joy at finishing yet I am sure you would have to endure the same pain. There will be other things though, and in John, Martin and Michael I think I have a team I would do pretty much anything with. Maybe something on a bike next time. Sorry Heledd. Sorry Mother.



Emma, Bobby and Ted at Emma's



We'll be back......







Running like Clockwork

No training this weekend, so if you are looking forward to the meticulously recorded training schedule, described and analysed in painstaking detail, I am afraid you are going to be disappointed. Not for the first time. Michael told me that with just one week to go, my training should be tapering, by which I think he meant 'stopping abruptly'. So, instead of tramping determinedly around the country, I spent the weekend watching the Grand Prix, the cricket and the Tour on TV with my feet up, resting for the big one next weekend. Just one week for the remaining aches and niggles to disappear and just one week to finalise the fantastically complicated logistics exercise of getting 4 of us and our kit from A to B. One week too for the pre-traumatic stress disorder to build nicely and I have my sister to thank for her extraordinary motivational pep-talk for revving that one up nicely.

My sister, Emma, recently returned from 3 years swanning around in the deserts, shopping malls and beach clubs of Dubai, is one of the central planks of our support team, living as she does now conveniently close to the route we will travel next weekend. She has always had the ability to make me collapse in hopeless fits of giggles, even when she was a 3 year old, singing in church on Christmas day. Not during one of the noisy bits, where everyone else is singing, but one of the bits where the chap in the frock is mumbling quietly to himself and everyone else has their heads bowed in pious silence. With assistance from the perfect acoustics of the high-roofed church, her clear, piping voice rang out as she sang; 'The farmer's in his wife, the farmer's in his wife. E-I-Addio the farmer's in his wife'. I also remember trying to play the recorder as I walked towards the nativity play stage in my shepherd's dressing gown and head tea-towel as she stepped out of the audience in front of me, looking the wrong way and with the same piping voice calling; 'where's James?' You trying playing; 'while shepherds watched' on the recorder when it's all you can do not to burst you are laughing so much. On Sunday, we were talking through the plan for next weekend and, knowing my tendency towards injury, Em asked how I was. She then started telling me about a Philip Pullman story, Clockwork, which is about a clockwork man who starts falling apart. Bits literally falling off him yet he determinedly walks on. Well, thanks Em for those carefully chosen words of support. I'll remember that as I stagger across the Downs, discarding unwanted limbs! Needless to say, the phone call rather lost the focus on support teams logistics as the tears of laughter mingled with the hysteria of terror.

So, pre-traumatic stress disorder. The jury is still out on post-traumatic stress, but I think it's just obvious. If you know you are going to do something that is going to hurt, your brain does stuff to you. Once you have done something that hurts, your brain does stuff to you. The worse the pain, the more your brain has to do. Now, I have never been shot at, if you exclude the numerous air-gun shots inflicted on me by my brother as a teenager. (Henry - that's why you can't have an airgun, your brother will shoot you and it will hurt!) Nor has anything really bad ever happened to me, but on the few occasions where my body has been tricked into pouring on the adrenaline in life-saving quantities, such as when I crashed a motorbike at 80pmh, I have a tendency to relive the incident again and again in my head until I can't distinguish real memory from imagined. I expect that's not unusual.

Pre-traumatic stress, then, is just another version of this - and for the last few nights, I have been doing Trailwalker in my sleep. Not in a helpful way, because of the uncertain, meandering nature of sleep thinking and it's been more about the tortuous logistics. However, I suppose it is a form of training. All I know is that if my head is already starting to spin a week before the event, my brain already knows it has some serious motivational talks to deliver to failing bits of body next weekend and is preparing the way so that it all runs like clockwork on the day. Let's just hope bits aren't falling off.

I'll do a post after the event and then that's probably it. You still have time to sponsor us if you haven't done so already, following the link up on the right hand side of the page. If you are interested in following our progress we set off at 6.00am on Saturday and aim to arrive at the finish early on Sunday morning. Martin will be tweeting and his id is Martw00. Think of us and just be careful if Michael calls you - you never know what he'll end up talking you into!

London - love it or loathe it, it's my home

I have always had a bit of a love hate relationship with London. I am sure everyone who lives here loves it and loathes it in some way. You can't avoid the bad stuff; another week goes by and another teenager is stabbed to death for no apparent reason, the main road through Brixton is shut for the second time in 2 weeks and the assumption is that another drug-dealing, gun-toting local has cashed in his life-insurance policy prematurely. The back door of the office yet again looks like the local tramps and deadbeats have mistaken it for the public toilet and it's only 8.30 on Monday morning. Over the years I have had to cross off a number of things that I can do; shops that I am allowed to visit, roads I am allowed to use, that sort of thing. Mainly for my own protection but also for those with me. For example, I can't go to Argos in Streatham any more. Having queued there to return a hoover for the 3rd time in 1995 (actually it felt like the whole of 1995), I looked the manager in the eye and vowed never to return even if Argos was the only shop left on the planet and I was desperate for cheap electrical goods. I now can't go to Lillywhites in Piccadilly ever again. Tom is off to Canada on a rugby tour and needed a scrum cap. We sweated our way on a super-heated underground to the premier sports emporium in the capital of the country that invented rugby, but the surly and completely disinterested assistant didn't know what a scrum cap was - even though he worked on the floor that sold rugby clothing. He looked a bit bemused when I delivered the crushing news that never again would I visit this football shirt-replica swamped excuse for a sports shop.

The same is true for roads. For years I couldn't leave London on the M40 because of that idiotic junction by White City; Battersea Bridge northbound will never see me in a car again; the North End road junction with the Cromwell Road will be similarly starved of my presence - and people ask me why I cycle around London! I don't have much choice.

And yet, still I live here. Ok, so I sneaked off to Hong Kong for a couple of years, but other than that, I have now lived in London since 1986. That's 25 years. Before that I hadn't lived in a single place for longer than 2 years, if you exclude boarding school. In fact, I have lived in West Norwood for most of those years - and, if you don't know it, no, it's not an endearing and vibrant little suburban village; it's actually a bit of a dump. The high street is scruffy and full of pound and charity shops, the ratio of people to fried chicken and kebab shops is about 1:1 and the total number of bars you'd want to go to is zero.

But here's the thing; you can only really lay into something in public when it's yours. If someone insulted my children, they'd need more than a scrum-cap for protection; insulting them is my job. If someone else has a pop at London, or West Norwood, I get all defensive. So there must be some stuff about it that's good - not just the familiarity of a comfortable pair of old slippers. This is partly why this weekend, instead of striking out for the countryside to train, I decided to trade in the rolling green belt of Surrey for the urban jungle. You see, I get to the bit about training for Trailwalker eventually.

Ruskin Park - Camberwell

The last few weekends I have trained alone and, whilst my own company doesn't necessarily rule out stimulating conversation, I thought I'd come up with a plan that allowed others to benefit too. The plan was to leave West Norwood early on Sunday morning and walk/ hike/ jog up to Tower Bridge and then a long tour down the Thames, hooking up with some company for the last section.

I left West Norwood at around 7.30 in glorious sunshine, oiled up like a well-greased chicken with factor 175 suncream. I wasn't risking the torching I had last weekend nor the snake-like sloughing of forehead skin (don't say that too quickly!). Visitors to London Bridge last week must have assumed I was visiting outpatients at Guys for treatment on a nasty case of leprosy.

A brisk walk through Brockwell Park, home to one of the coolest outdoor pools in the world. And I mean temperature cool. Actually, it's cool in both senses of the word. Then on through Herne Hill, known locally as Col du Herne, home as it is to the single remaining venue from the 1948 Olympics, the Herne Hill Velodrome. A little delapidated it may be, but my kids learnt to ride bikes there and I now meet the Dulwich Paragon there. On past King's Hospital; very special memories there of the boys' arrival many years back. It won't surprise the fearless foursome that my chief concern, faced with a wife who didn't exactly rush herself through childbirth (I'll be ironing my own shirts tonight!), was how I would manage mealtimes during the 'birthing process'. In one of the anti-natal (yes 'i' is correct), I had latched onto the warning that the father would need a good supply of snacks to get through a prolonged period of huffing and puffing. Anxious to avoid the 'business end' of childbirth, I focused on the head-end until in complete exasperation Heledd yelled; 'Oh, for god's sake stop going on about food all the bloody time, I am trying to have a f***g baby here.' I tried not to take offence, but it was pretty hurtful.

Tower Bridge

So, on through Camberwell, past Edwards Cycles and on up the Walworth Road towards London Bridge. My commuter route in the late 90s and again now I work in London Bridge. Probably not London's smartest streets, yet on a sunny Sunday morning, Burgess Park was a green haven of tennis and dog-walking. Even the now empty tower blocks as you approach the Elephant and Castle had a quiet dignity to them; low cost replacements for the streets remodelled by the Luftwaffe, not pretty but home to many a struggling Londoner. Round the Elephant, and 2 extraordinary buildings that have changed the traditionally low-rise skyline. The 'Strata' tower or 'Razor' and the 'Shard', not yet finished but already visible from miles around.

Shard in the background

City Hall

Still walking at this point, and beginning to understand why the tramps use our office doorways due to lack of alternatives, I took a quick break in Starbucks. Then it was onto the Thames path starting at Tower Bridge, such a stunning landmark, standing out against the bright blue sky. For the next few miles, the tourist landmarks hit you one after the other; a mixture of old and new; HMS Belfast, with the wax models of the chap having his appendix out. A survivor of one of the most famous sea battles of the 2nd World War and now a floating museum and conference venue. Boris' wobbly jelly of a building, tilting to one side; Hays Galleria, Southwark Cathedral, the Golden Hinde. On past the Globe, the Tate Modern and the South Bank. Then the classics; the Eye, Big Ben, Parliament.

Southwark Cathedral

By this time, it was around 10.00am and the tourist numbers were swelling; I must apologise to the large group of Germans who may have overheard me deep in conversation with my camera. It had chosen this moment to stop working; perhaps the cornucopia of architectural eye-candy was too much for it. It required some firm but perhaps somewhat agricultural words of encouragement and, with my iPod blocking my own hearing, I may have spoken a little louder than I intended. A little behind schedule now, I decided to run once I had moved on from the delights of Westminster to the wastelands of Vauxhall and Battersea Power Station. That's an odd one; a distinctive but hardly beautiful fixture, beloved and hated in equal measure; abandoned and left mouldering for years whilst plans to re-build it have foundered. It sort of sums up London in many ways. Is it an iconic and historical landmark or an eye-sore occupying much needed development land in the heart of the capital? Yes to both.


Battersea Park. I love Battersea Park. When we were fed up with the manicured lawns of Dulwich and the open dog-shit acres of Brockwell, we'd go the extra mile to Battersea to wear out the boys in the zoo, or at the adventure playground, or just walking around the lake, eating genuinely good food at the cafe. I was still running, feeling no pain and doing the now traditional diesel-chug, where I break no land-speed records but keep ticking off the miles.

Lots Rd Power Station

At this point, I diverted from the river and up to Clapham Common to meet up with the rest of my team for the latter part of the day's training. Paul, Karen, Heledd and I, post-bacon sandwich re-fuel, set off from 'between the commons' and off down to Plantation Wharf, past the old Candle factory, picking up the Thames path again past acres of new flats housing London's young professionals. Down to Wandsworth Bridge and across up the north side of the Thames, past the old power station on Lots Road that used to provide the electricity for the underground, but which now stands idle and derelict. What is it about London power stations? On past chintzy Cheyne Walk, where one posy resident parks his two cars, number plates '2 B' and 'NOT 2B' alongside the main road. Cock.

St Mary's Battersea

Over Battersea Bridge and past the Church of St Mary's, where William Blake was married, built in 1777 and now sitting alongside the ultra-modern apartment blocks that flank the bridge, we finally stopped for the promised coffee break that had been the condition of Heledd accompanying. The continental feel of Battersea Square, a delightful pavement, thronged with young Londoners idling away a sunny Sunday morning. Then back up to Clapham Common and shoes off. 36km, feet a little sore, left shin a bit stiff but otherwise fine.

So I might moan about London; I may even have said that while I was in Hong Kong, I didn't miss London at all. But where else in the world could you see all this walking from your home? And on days like this, with the sun shining and some great company, how can it get better? Well, I'll tell you how. An enormous side of English beef and a bucket of sparkling wine. Not from Australia or France; but from Denbies Vineyard in Box Hill. Yes, Box Hill, in England. English Sunday lunch, with the Wimbledon final and the sports section of the Sunday Times. London. Home.