Monday 15 August 2016

Bittersweet - The power and pain of a DNF




Focus


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After months of preparation, countless hours of training and fine tuning – all seemingly for nothing. I had an element of personal pride in the fact that I'd doggedly finished every race I'd entered up to press. I now question whether that was truly an accolade, or just pure stubbornness to the detriment of the bigger picture.  I suppose it is naïve to expect to this unbroken run to continue in the face of a slew of 100 milers (3 booked in this year), especially still as a relative rookie.

I draw some satisfaction, however menial and personal, that my race at the Lakeland 100 was drawn to an early conclusion through illness. I hate to think I've quit anything in life, yet through honest reflection, a couple of weeks later now I have started to come to terms with this outcome. Most importantly I need to extract any lessons learnt and experience gained.

The defining factor is the determination I've galvanised from this adventure. I felt utterly destroyed both physically and mentally by my apparent failure. With this as a painful memory, I'll continue to attack my races with the same indomitable will and determination to try and avoid this emotion in the future.

The Race


My plan on race day was to approach the whole experience in a much more relaxed manner this time around. Waking up to miserable, dark, rain filled skies in Sheffield, yet the promise of sunnier climes kept my mood favourable. We set off in what felt like good time to reach the Lakes before deciding on a stop off for lunch. My daughter had the honours of choosing our nutritional intake – inevitably it would always be her favourite, KFC. Whatever possessed me to partake in this poor pre-race meal option I'll never know. Equally I'll never know if it was a contributing factor in my ultimate demise.


On we went after a mountain of fried chicken, and subsequently got caught in the mother of all traffic jams. This became a secondary factor in respect my rising stress levels. However after some route diversions we descended on Coniston with enough time to register and get myself prepped. And so after kit check and race briefing I had a short while to chat with the ever friendly Rupert Bonnington of Mountain Fuel and Vincent from Salomon. All the while the sun was getting ever hotter...


The first climb towards Old Man of Coniston

We collected in the starters pen, having being dibbed in, and I took the opportunity to wish Stuart Percival well in his race before the usual ritual of Nessun Dorma being sung. As the countdown to the start ticked away I reflected on how I felt, it's hard to put it into words, I just felt a little out of sorts.  Like my body didn't belong to me, a slightly queasy feeling in my stomach and weak legs. I shrugged it off as nerves and the race started with a wave of overenthusiastic, tapered ultra-runners charging through Coniston and up the first mountain.
The ascent up Walna Scar proved to be my first notification all was not well. My legs felt like lead and I was just sweating profusely. It was in stark contrast to the recce run I'd done a few weeks prior from Coniston to Braithwaite. On that occasion I'd effortlessly covered the 35 miles and 10,000ft of ascent, nailing my nutrition plan in the process. I'd easily sustained my effort on Mountain Fuel Xtreme energy and Mountain Fuel - homemade banana flapjacks. Yet here I was toiling up the first hill less than a mile into the race. I thought back to the previous year, where once again I'd felt pretty awful over that first ascent, yet that day had proved successful as I brought things around to finish my first 100 miler in 26hrs. I consciously backed off the pace and tried to allow things to unfold naturally. As I summited over the pass, I used the rocky descent into Seathwaite to recover and try to turn things around.

This quite naturally brings me to what I now consider another mistake in this years race. I was being far too goal orientated, planning for a 24hour time at the slowest, with aspirations for an even faster time than that. The issue being that even at this early stage I was too concerned with my splits. I hit Seathwaite aid station pretty much bang on to the previous years time. Which at this point was fine, but as the evening progressed and I started losing time, it would prove to be part of my undoing.

Salomon S-Lab Sense eating up the rocky terrain

The run out of Seathwaite is always a pleasant run through the woods, which is reminiscent of the trails I run on daily; rooty and technical. So here, in my element I started to feel at least fairly good. As we hit a short but steep ascent after a farm yard, a group of about 5 runners had all come together. I took the opportunity to get some solid food in me in the form of some flapjack, all the while sipping on Mountain Fuel. The flapjack took a good 5 minutes to eat as my mouth was completely dry. Along with the profuse sweating and general weakness I drew the conclusion that I was probably quite poorly. I could try forever to pin this down to something, maybe the KFC for lunch, the heat or even a lingering cold/illness I'd been harbouring on the run up to the race? But it now seems pretty redundant, sometimes you've just got to take the hand you're dealt with and try to do your best. I'm often guilty of debriefing and dissecting my races down to the last detail. Sometimes this may look like a reason to find excuses, but I'm ambitious and want to discover my weaknesses in order to improve and perform better in the long run.

So it was with this resignation that I soldiered on hoping something might change over the next 24, or so hours of racing. I actually started to enjoy myself again on the climb over to Boot, although it wasn't lost on me just how wet it was underfoot meaning another bout of 'trenchfoot' by Dalemain. I managed to tag onto the back of a couple of runners, which helped me run up the boggy climb. Despite my plight I could still sense the fitness I'd attained on the build up to the race and really enjoyed the moment racing with the two guys, dancing around the mud and rocks. A slight error of nav as we began the descent to Boot before we once again we picked up the pace a little. On the steep, wet, grassy decline I expected some slips and falls but the Salomon S-Lab Sense gripped admirably. I'd considered going for the Salomon Soft Ground, but was pleased the Sense were performing great.  As we ran through a farm yard and onto a single track road I saw a familiar looking runner walking up ahead. As I neared him I realised it was Richard Ashton who'd been nursing a grim looking ankle injury on the week leading up to the race. After a quick chat to check on his welfare it transpired that he'd rolled it again a couple of times and was looking to drop at Boot. I told him I'd let them know at the aid and if needs must get someone to come pick him up.


Keeping positive into Wasdale

Onward over the next section of stunning riverside trail, and once again I felt like I was moving reasonably well, even gapping the two runners I'd been sharing the journey with for a short while. Running into Boot, the pubs were full and a rapturous cheer lifted my spirits as I prepped some Mountain Fuel for the aid station. The sight of the ever friendly and always smiling Debbie Martin-Consani lifted my mood further as she tended to my nutritional needs, allowing me a second to gather myself and look at the food on offer. Grabbing a single HobNob, really just for the sake of it I think, I started a purposeful hike up and out of the aid station. It was starting to feel futile where on a steady incline up to Burnmoor Tarn I just couldn't get moving more than a slow shuffle. Comically this painfully slow meander was enough to keep those behind me at bay, but at the same time I wasn't reeling anyone in front either.

As the view down towards Wasdale and Kirk Fell opened up, I couldn't help but smile and revel in the moment. Even though I was suffering and clearly having a bad race, it's always good to remember why we put our bodies through this. I tackled the steep descent into Wasdale with a guy called Ben and another friendly Dude. Conversation was minimal though, so it seemed we were all suffering a bit.

The Sunderland Strollers lifting the spirits of a broken man

As the light really began to fade with the setting Sun, I entered the aid station. This aid is run by the Sunderland Strollers and is always a frenetic hive of energy. This year was no exception, with Tony Allen enthusiastically welcoming me into the aid. There seemed to be quite a few runners lingering at the aid, and I was both happy and saddened to see Ian Radford sat looking tired and dejected. I'd run most of the Lakeland 100 last year with Ian and was looking forward to sharing some of the journey again with him. However Ian had gone out quite quick, maybe as a result of all those lightning fast marathons he's been running, and he was paying the price dearly. The aid crew got to work sorting my bottles out and adding Mountain Fuel while I looked at the food. I think I grabbed some crisps before a quick group photo with the Strollers and left with a purpose ready to take on the always enjoyable Black Sail Pass. As I started the climb I still felt weak, and it hit me again how strong I'd felt a couple of weeks prior when running the same section. But it seemed as the ascent steepened rapidly, not only was I resigned to a hike, but it felt painfully slow. As I crossed the fast stream halfway up I took a minute to drink loads of water and try to refresh myself. This was where I switched my Petzl headlamp on as a moonless sky finally turned ink black. It wasn't lost on me that this stream crossing was where I fell the previous year and injured my knee. An injury I would go on to suffer for the remaining 85 or so miles to the finish. The thought of trying to do the same again felt inconceivable, yet last year it was a finish no matter what mentality and no real time pressures. Yet here I was with my legs and joints feeling fresher than I've known for some time – I just couldn't muster any energy to drive them upwards and onwards.

I got my head down as a pair of runners came past me and trudged up the near vertical switchbacks. I rounded a corner to see a guy sat down, clearly exhausted. Johnathon (as it read under his race number) told me he was finished. He planned to walk over to Buttermere and look at dropping from the race. His thoughts dangerously echoed that of my own, in that he couldn't perform anywhere near his ability due to zero energy levels. I'd been shoving negative thoughts to the back of my mind as much as possible, but as John joined me on the slow climb up the pass his own fears became infectious. What was the point in destroying myself for a sub-standard race performance? I immediately chastised myself for such negativity and pushed on. We topped out over the pass and descended into Ennerdale Valley. The night wasn't helping on this technical section, requiring hands on rock to climb down certain parts. But here again, when gravity assisted my running I starting thinking things might be getting better. False hope in reality as the next climb would brutally kick the confidence and energy back out of me. I managed some fairly decent running along the valley bottom picking up a nice cadence, now leading a short train of about 5 runners that had concertinaed together.

Black Sail Pass in the daylight

The next climb up Scarth Gap came all too quick and it was back to hands on knees. So much was the effort, I stepped to one side to let the other runners lead up the mountainside. I tagged on the back and just tried to hang onto them - demoralising doesn't seem a strong enough word. I grabbed some flapjack from my bag and tried eating it. I managed half before I felt queasy, my stomach audibly unhappy with the strain I was putting my broken body through. I've been sick in plenty of races, usually it ends up being a fingers down the throat, self induced affair. Sometimes this can offer a bit of a reset, and you can look to rebuild the contents with some quality nutrition. Not this time – I literally projectile vomited instantaneously onto the trail in front of me. The final confirmation of my state of ill-being. I collapsed onto the side of the trail and continued to dry heave what little was left in my stomach. I gave myself a minute before I crawled onto my feet and continued up the trail. It didn't seem too long before I was over the top and dropping down towards Buttermere, once again alone on the pitch black trails. 

Despite my sugar deprived state I managed to wobble along the trail, fast enough to overtake John again. Now to compound my ongoing woes my stomach started cramping painfully. I wondered if I'd strained my abdominals through the vomiting but couldn't be sure. Then just before I reached the village of Buttermere I was startled to see, in the beam of my torch light, 3 West Highland Terriers wearing Christmas Jumpers!?! My first thoughts were that this must be something the aid volunteers had arranged to amuse the runners coming into the village. However it transpired it was just a vivid hallucination, and as I neared, the Westies slowly morphed into the 3 bewildered sheep they actually were. Bizarre.

As I came into the aid station I was welcomed with the promise of some soup and bread. I declined the bread due to my new-found wheat intolerance, although on retrospect I think this was a mistake as the extra calories would have undoubtedly helped. Still the soup was a godsend, and it went down nicely. James Elson was casually putting some warm clothes on as he had dropped from the race. I was a little shocked as I'd anticipated both him and Rick Ashton to be racing for the podium. James reasons once again echoed my own sufferance stating low energy levels. 

Still I had a task to accomplish so I didn't hang about too long before I set off up the next climb – the ever brutal Sail Pass. I shared some of early section with another kind runner, although his name eludes me now – sorry. As we contoured along the path, dipping into the stream cloughs, conversation was again light and I really wasn't feeling any better. We reached the third clough and the other runner cut straight across the stream bed. I considered for a moment whether to follow suit, but I had a word with myself and if I was to finish this race, I would make sure I'd legitimately covered every inch. So once again, I was by myself as I cut deep into the clough and crossed the stream higher up where I was meant to. I steadily sipped my Mountain Fuel Xtreme Energy, and in all fairness it was the only thing that was keeping me ticking over as solids were still out of the question.

The mellow part of Sail Pass


When the trail kicked really steep, after the scree slope I was feeling the effort so I kept the pace light. Not that I had much choice, with my stomach continuing to cramp every so often. I once again sat down on the trail to recover and soak up the atmosphere. I'm the sort of person that likes to 'race' these events, and that's not to decry people who enter to travel the course at a relatively 'easy' pace. Far from it, I'm almost looking forward to a time when I'm older and hopefully still able to run these events, where I can move at a more sociable pace and really enjoy the routes. But for the time being (competitiveness and ambition I guess) I hate slowing too much and especially stopping. I rarely spend more than a couple of minutes in aid stations and unless, like today where I'm having issues, I'd never normally stop on the trail. Of course the fact that my body was slowly shutting down wasn't really giving me an option. So I sat in the darkness and turned off my torch. I looked back down the valley towards Buttermere and could see a few torch lights weaving up towards me. Glancing in the direction I was headed, it seemed a blessing that I couldn't see how far I had left to climb. After a minute or so I got back to my feet and pushed on. I think this was either premature, or I'd unsettled myself by resting but a few steps later I sort of keeled over and blacked out. I can't describe the sensation, but the sheer effort of moving with my symptoms, it was like my body just gave out for a second. This should have been the last straw really and the decision to drop at Braithwaite was the only sensible thing left to do.  Unfortunately I don't often do sensible, it just feels too mainstream, lol. I'm not particularly special in any way, so by trying to push beyond my limits at least allows me to attain a sense of achievement and personal achievement.

I was joined by another runner for the descent into Braithwaite and we actually had a nice chat which pepped me up a bit. The company actually served to distract me from the intense pain in my stomach. Which ultimately led us to a route error, dropping us much further down the valley than we needed to. A quick detour up through the steep bracken strewn hillside and we were back on track. Ironically I guess, I'd made the very same nav error on my recce, but that was in daylight. It was only by using the GPS track on my Suunto that I'd noticed in the darkness.

As we picked our way through the village of Braithwaite I told my new friend of my pains and the consideration that it might just not be my day. He encouraged me to keep going and dig deep which helped steel my resolve. I took some time at the aid station to have sit down and try to put some more calories in. I had a bowl of cold rice pudding with jam in, something I hadn't sampled since I was a child so it brought back some pleasant memories. This seemed to actually help a little, so as more runners started to stream into the aid I got up and left. 

The next 2 miles or so went pretty well, the level ground meant I could run smoothly and not jostle my stomach too much. It also meant I really thought I could still bring this thing home. Of course the climb up the side of Latrigg was the reality check I needed that all was still not well in the 'Kirky' camp. It was frustrating to think I'd had the pleasure of running up this ascent in the company of Kilian Jornet at the Salomon event a few weeks prior, but was now  resigned to a desultory walk in the dark. It was soon over though and I ran into the long valley which leads to the Blencathra aid. I was surprised to see a number of torchlights stringing along the length of the valley in front of me. I must have actually made up some time since Braithwaite. This joyous thought was short lived though as the stomach cramps increased in frequency and intensity. And as I reached the end of the valley and began to return leg on the opposite side I was confronted by a fair few torchlights in pursuit. I think this is what finally caused something to snap in my mind. I knew I needed some significant time at Blencathra to really sort myself out. I hadn't taken enough time at the previous aids to resolve much and my performance was suffering even more as the night passed. This sight of all the runners giving chase made me realise I was now fully out of any real race for a time or position I would truly be proud of. The momentous effort to get round in the state I was, was only going to result in a much flawed outcome goal. Which neatly takes me back to my problem, I was so outcome oriented I was rapidly losing sight of the necessary process goals to get this thing done. 50 milers, although in some ways harder in different ways due to pace, can almost be blagged with poor nutrition or physical issues. But with the gargantuan effort required to complete a 100 miler, one has to have 100% resolve that you won't stop, no matter what. My soul was now crushed, I felt like crying if I'm being even slightly honest here. My motivations in complete tatters, and the crippling pain in my belly taunted me further.

I practically fell into the Blencathra Aid, so much so the staff there could tell immediately I was in dire straits. They were amazing in tending to my needs, trying to force food down me. They made me a big mug of sweet tea too to try and turn it all around. I verbalised my thoughts on a dreaded DNF, but was strangely surprised when they adamantly told me not to. I always expected aid staff to be more likely to pull someone from a race as opposed to pushing them on. I think this was one of the last positive thoughts I might have had on a completion before my newly filled stomach griped in agony. It hurt so much I ended up curled under a table on the floor and promptly fell asleep for about 30 minutes or so. I can't imagine how weird it must have looked to other runners coming through, for me to be sprawled comatose on the floor – not that I would have even cared at that point.

When I finally sat up rubbing my eyes, I climbed onto a chair and while I spoke with Little Dave about my options, I was greeted with a most pleasant sight. My good friend from up North, Stuart Percival wandered into the aid station. His face amused me most as he saw me sat forlorn in the chair. I explained I'd been there for nearly an hour now, but wanted to get to Dalemain (60 mile point) with him. He was equally happy for the company so we set of with renewed vigour. Just the small matter of another 20 miles of feeling like crap…


Stuart and me enjoying the moment


The morning was just beginning to break as we tackled the new section towards the Old Coach Road. We effectively interspersed running and walking as best we could. Stu was suffering a bit with pains in his knee through ITB so we generally worked to whatever pace was comfortable for him. It was great to run along together and have a great chat. We even managed a comedy 'walking speed' overtake past three guys on the climb onto the Old Coach Road - don't think it was lost on them either. I actually enjoy this section as its nicely rolling and supremely runnable. We must have been moving reasonable well as we made the overtake stick and even caught and passed another runner further up the trail. The sun was fully rising into an amazing skyline which really made me appreciate the moment. I was truly grateful I'd managed to at least see the sunrise, and even if it all ended soon I'd secured some great memories. 

As the sun rises over Old Coach Road


I knew in my mind I'd made my mind up to seriously consider dropping at Dalemain, so it was a bittersweet experience. But most of all I was grateful of the opportunity to share some of Stuart's race with him. I'd even like to think I helped him along over those last 20 miles.

We reached Dockray and my pains were still getting worse after the slight respite of my sleeping/fuelling stop at Blencathra. I made sure I topped up my Mountain Fuel, which I was still drip feeding to keep me going. It was the only thing that didn't exacerbate my stomach problems and kept a steady flow of energy. Not that my body was being in anyway effective at utilising it.


Just pacing a climb up Gowbarrow Fell

At the risk of letting this narrative continue forever; the next 11 miles or so went by with a mix of doubling over with cramps, many great laughs with Stuart, the amazing views from Gowbarrow Fell down to Ullswater, before the final mind numbing trudge through Dacre and onto the Dalemain estate.
The stunning views over Ullswater

Over the long featureless drag through the Dalemain estate my mind began playing tricks on me. Despite my pains I was still considering the immense energy and pain tolerance that would be required to continue, and even if I could in fact do it. It was when I saw my kids in the distance that with overwhelming emotion I knew I was finished. Every scrap of my being had been pushing for the last several hours to return me to my family. The sheer pain and hardship all seemed to release the emotion at once. A hug with my kids and Emma was the final straw, and my salvation.

We ran into the aid, an outdoor tent, which was full of broken runners so we were relegated to a chair outside. I slumped into the chair and explained to Emma what had transpired overnight. I think she knew I was done, but didn't want to tell me to stop. She rightly let it be my own decision. And even then as Stuart sat busily in the next chair sorting his feet out I had a fleeting moment of indecision.


It turned out a paramedic would be the one to help make that fateful choice. Obviously concerned about my wellbeing (I must have looked rough!) she checked my levels. It transpired my oxygen, blood pressure and sugars were all dangerously low. She didn't pull my race, but she recommended it. In my pathetic little existence, this was a monumental junction...

Trying to make light with the paramedics in my darkest hour

Which road to take, one of apparent failure or drive on to oblivion? I'm not going to write an honest and frank race report to then end it with a lie. I could have continued, I might have faltered further down the line, God forbid it could have even resulted in death. But equally I could've made it to the end, but at what cost? Last year it took me several months to recover fully. I think I made the right choice to withdraw. It'll take a lot longer to convince myself that it's so conclusive, but I'll continue to try.

The aid member came over and cut my dibber, effectively ending my race. I didn't initially feel the heartbreak I expected, that came later. Rather my body had a massive feeling of relief and salvation. It was as we walked to the car I felt the first tinges of regret. Then a couple of hours later, rested and feeling fully recovered I was gutted. My soul was destroyed, I'd failed. I do wonder if sometimes I'm just trying too hard.



When the body finally gives way


It's only through long term reflection I'm able to process these circumstances. It will give me strength to improve. I can now see clearly where I've not pushed enough, and equally where I've tried too hard. It's with joy and relief I can move forward in the hardest of life lessons to my next chapter:

"Without the sour, there ain't no sweet..."




As always huge thanks to Salomon, Suunto and Mountain Fuel for their ongoing support in my adventures.