I was looking forward to the final race, for which the weather forecast was ideal. When packing my kit, I made some fresh adjustments: less food, more charging cables, and most importantly, plenty of warm clothes for the finish. One open question was whether to take my video equipment. The longest race I’d previously shot was a 65k’er, and given how the weight of the kit had dragged me down, and the pointed edges had dug into my torso, I’d vowed never to film such a long run ever again. In spite of my better judgement, I opted to pack my camera and gimbal. I've included a link to the resulting video at the end of this piece, where you can judge for yourself whether it was worth my discomfort. My late departure on the morning of the race meant there was no time for any of the usual routines, breakfast or hydration; and standing on the start line already feeling weighed down by my unwieldy gimbal, wedged uncomfortably into my stomach, I could tell it was going to be a long day. Whilst hilly, the first stage shot by like a dream, with some steep climbs and incredible vistas over the Seven Sisters. The second stage was flatter, and tracked the picturesque Cuckmere River up through Seven Sisters Country Park. I rocketed through the second aid station, eschewing the food on offer (a decision I soon reproached myself for, in light of my lack of breakfast). After unexpectedly bumping into a friend from another running club, I briefly set off the wrong way, course-corrected, and continued along the route. After this, we hit the real ascents, and soon after my hamstrings started to seize. It was still early in the race, but things were going badly wrong. At Southease Village Farm aid station, I stopped to stretch and give my legs a rest, but to little avail. This race included an extra water station before the halfway rest stop, so I pushed onwards and upwards to Woodingdean - it was hard going. I took a while at the water station trying to coax some life into my legs, eventually giving up and pushing on once more. I knew it was downhill all the way to Brighton. The last 5k before the halfway rest stop proved the toughest of the whole race; although flat, and running on pavement alongside Brighton’s beach, my hamstrings really felt as though they’d given all they had. I stopped beside some traffic lights to stretch, despondently, on a bench. The final slog to Hove Park was truly a gruelling test of grit and determination. I spent a whole hour at Hove Park; longer than I’ve ever spent at a rest stop before. I was all too conscious that I was blowing my race time, but weighed against the knowledge that I simply had to recover the use of my legs, I felt I had no choice. It took a while after Hove for my legs to warm up once more, and for my running to start flowing. Now, though, it was the turn of the weather to worsen: cloud set in, rain threatened, and occasionally broke though. A notable headwind had been blowing all day, and now the gusts picked up. Though my legs had loosened, and my pace increased, my outlook still remained poor. Taking stock whilst passing through the 69k aid station, I reflected that, physically, I was in far better shape. As I departed, the sun reemerged, and my spirits finally lifted. For most of the next climb, I was engaged in conversation with another runner, who - much like me - had struggled through the early-mid portion of this race. Nearing the summit, I wished him well, and sped away. My legs were finally back under my control, and I was determined to make up as much time as I could. After Windlesham, darkness set in, so I stopped to don my headtorch. Setting off again by torchlight, I was reminded of my last Maverick night trail race. That had been an exhilarating experience, and I knew I was going to enjoy the final stages of this race too. I passed runners with pitiful headtorches, runners using their mobile phone’s flashes, and runners who had opted not to turn on their headtorches despite the pitch darkness. I offered them assistance, but all refused. Ultra runners can, clearly, be stubborn folk. I didn’t even stop at the last aid station; I was running well, and had more time to make up. The final stretch ran through thick woodland trail alongside the River Arun, and came with a neverending series of potential hazards. The metal bar running along the bottom of a pedestrian gate seemed expressly designed to trip people up; fortunately I caught myself before tumbling head-over-heels. I was lucky to spot the swampy pond lying, perfectly camouflaged, in the middle of the trail in the very nick of time; others I spoke to at the finish hadn’t been so fortunate. Shortly after, I passed one runner struggling to hold down their food; such can be the gastrointestinal effects of such long distance endeavours. The final stretch featured soft trail riddled with tree roots; just my sort of terrain. Plenty to keep you acutely focused on foot placement, whilst at the same time revelling in the sensory delight of silent, isolated nighttime trail running, punctuated only by the intriguing sound of wildlife one can neither see nor identify. If one can ever feel truly present, it's here. At the finish, I was delighted to see I’d clawed back even more time than I’d expected. My final quarter had been a strong performance; and whilst not what I’d been hoping for at the outset, 14:15 was still half an hour faster than JCC. Ultras are tough, and things can and do go wrong. It’s how you respond that matters. Thank you all for your kind donations, for Paul. https://youtu.be/aKfjhEs9T8g

I'd been so busy in the week leading up to the run that I hadn't made time to review the Chiltern Challenge's elevation profile. I knew it was the flattest of my three races, but precisely how flat I didn't know. At the finish, I discovered I'd ascended some 1.8km, which is equivalent to over two ascents of Snowdon via the popular Pyg track. So, not pancake-flat then. The reality was that, for most of the route, there was no flat - there were only ascents and descents. I hadn't tapered properly as I should in the run-up to this 100k; happenstance dictated that other running events peppered my schedule in the weeks prior, and my muscles weren't as prepared as I'd have liked. So, it was with little surprise that, a few hours in, I found my muscles complaining vociferously; rather earlier than they would otherwise. My problems were exacerbated by the sloshing of water in my shoes; a permanent feature of this race. Though, coming just days after a new temperature record was set, in some ways the near-continuous rainfall throughout the day was a blessing in disguise. Approaching the 50k aid station, I was really struggling. Muscular fatigue had degraded my legs to almost useless appendages; capable of holding me upright, but relatively ineffectual in terms of generating forward movement. Ultra marathons are balanced beasts: they reward the runner with some incredible highs, and punish them with some deep, dark lows. Whilst hurriedly wolfing down some vegetable lasagna, a fellow runner sat down opposite me, having completed his 50k challenge; and with a sense of frustration so tangible one could touch it, bemoaned the advertisement of the route as being 50k, when in fact it was almost 52k. (While such a minor course inaccuracy might appear insignificant; to a tired, hungry, broken runner with acute tunnel-vision focus on making the next aid station to obtain relief and sustenance, that can make all the difference in the world.) I could well sympathise. He then inquired where he could catch the bus back to the start line, not realising I was running the 100k version of the challenge. He expressed amazement when I explained I wasn't sure, as I had another 50k to go; and he questioned how on earth I could even contemplate running any further. I assumed his question was rhetorical; if it wasn't, I had no answer to give him. The steep hill that welcomed me just outside the aid station wasn't what I needed either; but on I went, soon finding new energy and determination. But hills, nettles, rain - at times heavy, mud and muscular fatigue all played their part in making for a laborious third quarter of the race. Resting at aid stations wasn't helping: I knew that keeping moving was the best policy, but ultras are as much mental as they are physical, and doing what one knows is best isn't always easy. That finally came home to roost at the final aid station (again slightly misplaced, at 90k instead of 88 as advertised). I'd been running strongly the past 8k, clocking some of my fastest kms of the run, and was tiring as I approached it, but otherwise felt good. Despite knowing better, I briefly took a seat for a couple of minutes to recuperate before the final 10k push. That proved my undoing. My muscles stiffened, and for the next couple of kilometres I could hardly walk. I lost quite a number of places, until a passing runner steeled my determination with a much-needed call to arms. I forced my legs to do what I'd been unable to force them to do for a half-hour, and forged on with gusto, making good progress for 5k and regaining some of my lost places. That's when fatigue set in once more, and I finally lost my top 10 position for good. After steeling myself one last time, I managed a decent final push to the finish - which, somewhat predictably by now, was past the 101k mark. That didn't matter though; no matter how broken one is; somehow, the last couple of kilometres are always manageable! Two down, one more hilly run to go. Here's to you Paul; I don't blame you for not trying these yourself! https://www.strava.com/activities/2568107475

Yesterday I ran the Jurassic Coast Challenge, finishing in 34th place in a time of 14 hours 45 minutes. This was both my first 100k, and the hardest of my three 100k runs; involving 2.6k of ascent. This is the same vertical distance you'd encounter climbing Snowdon via the popular Pyg track 3.25 times. Most of the ascent was in the first half of the race; an unforgiving marathon of steep hills tracking the imposing chalk cliff coastline. This takes a significant toll on one's glutes and quads. Following this came long stretches of tiresome shingle beach that swallows one's feet whole. I dubbed this energy-sapping terrain "quickshingle". The temperature was favourable, but a strong headwind was unrelenting throughout, and at times the buffeting was difficult to counteract - a problem that became more acute when running alongside barbed wire fences. As one of the tougher 100k races going, I can take solace knowing that the next will be easier. It won't have the same views though. Very many thanks to you all for donating in memory of Paul; it means a lot. https://strava.app.link/AyQFk05hoX