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......