I never intended on running 12 hours this year. I hadn't ever even considered a 12 hour run a goal of mine for any year. Sometimes, though, a little box pops up on your Facebook feed that you can't help but click on... and the idea seeds itself... who am I kidding, I was sold from reading the title:
"This is EPIC 12hr run: From Sunset to Sunrise".
I entered the day before leaving to cycle-tour Iceland.
As you could probably guess, preparations for this race had been pretty meagre. I spent some time thinking about nutrition and pacing in my diary on the nights I was less exhausted in the tent when cycling Iceland. Other than that, ie. the 2 weeks after Iceland but before the race, I hardly even cast it a thought. As I hardly even thought about it, I totally forgot to tell most people I was even doing it. Not even my parents knew, and I had skype'd my dad 3 days before it. The Celtman took me 18.5 hours, so I guess I was just on autopilot about a 12 hour run - how hard could it be?! Just keep moving forward, right!?
Yeah... no. I'd take a triathlon any day over solely running for that length of time again. But I'll start from the beginning (you need the nut roast before moving the banana n-ice cream, right).
BUT, WHY... JUST, WHY?
Running a marathon is something, just over the last 2 years, I have built into my psyche as something that I can actually do, when I push myself to it. Year 1 was just training, all the time, from zero to train train train. This last year has been about cashing in all those gains - Ironman Barcelona, Midnight Marathon, Brighton Marathon, Celtman, Iceland... so that's why. I felt I could squeeze in just one more before leaving for Mozambique. As I said, it just landed in my lap (well, laptop (wawaah)) so I was like: Yeah. Alright then.
BEFORE THE RACE
The day of the race was a funny one - I didn't plan on getting to the castle (EPIC12 HQ) until 530pm, so spent the day just sitting in various stretches and eating small portions of various concoctions every couple of hours. I didn't chug water, I just had my usual 2 litres I always have every day (I hate needing to pee all the time in races). I didn't focus on carbohydrates either - with my departure to a life on the beach imminent, I have focussed a lot on getting fats and protein to dominate my meals rather than carbohydrates for the last couple of weeks (as I said, I've hardly thought about the 12, but getting my body to fat-burn for a couple of weeks may actually have benefitted me). On Friday I had a day of oats, rice, bread (thanks Chefan!) and potato to fill my 'glycogen tanks' again, but Saturday I went back to eating just simple meals of fruits, soup, I had a couple lettuce tortillas and that's about it. No bloating and no complaints. Let's go.
Since returning from Iceland, I have hardly been running. Or cycling. Just yoga-ing and lifting a few weights. I knew running the first 2 laps (10km per lap) ought to be back-to-back and non-stop. Even pacing works well for most, and is highly recommended by pretty much all coaches ever, but I like to think about my races as evenly pacing by 'perceived effort' rather than physically pacing my actual speed. And, as with all races, the start always feels so very, very easy. I just went with it, logging my first 10km at just under 1 hour. The next was 1 hour 4. I continued to the third lap, 1 hour 7.
This third lap was brilliant - it was the last day of the Proms on the Bay (BBC Proms Guernsey style-y) and it just so happened that I was running out towards town while the fireworks display was going on. Not only that, but Oasis' Masterplan shuffled itself into my ears. Sometimes the world just feels so very aligned. A relay runner passed me at that point, holding out his hand for a high-five. I guess he felt it too.
Third lap done. Quick 10 minute break; 1/2 an avocado wrap, stretch and onto the marathon (close enough). Fourth lap: 1 hour 12. After 40kms, I allowed myself just a bit longer of a break.
I had over-dressed drastically and was sweating far too much - sweat was dripping out of my sleeves when I swung my arms, and it was cascading down my back from under my Camelbak. My leggings were soaked from it. Yep, it was pretty gross and totally avoidable. Anyone that's worn wet pants and gone for a run knows the issues you may suffer with rubbing skin in wet clothes. Bit of an error there, my ass cheeks look like an effing baboons' by this point!
After 40km, it was unbearable - thank my brain for being just switched on enough to realise I might be needing a change of clothes. I got completely changed in a dark corner, stumbling around with my bright red beacon bum out must've been quite a sight. I have a sneaking suspicion I wasn't as subtle about this as I was hoping at the time. Ah well, I felt like a new person heading out for the fifth lap, well... for the first 5km of it.
Then it just hurt. Everything except my fingernails were complaining at me to stop (and that's only because they have a rather fancy blue varnish on them). I was checked out. I promised myself, if I kept running the whole rest of this lap (45-50km) then I would go home. I kept myself at a 'not-walking-I-swear' run pace for that 5km and hiked it up to the castle, ready to go straight to my bike (of course, I had to cycle to and from the race) and cycle home. I thought of a shower, I thought of my bed, and I was ready. 'EPIC 50km' I decided I would disguise my quitting as on Strava.
Something strange happened, though, when I got to the tent in the castle. Plenty of people were sat around, most a part of a relay team, one or two individuals having a break, and the organisers, Louise, Philip and Warren. I didn't go to my bike, as I got into conversation with Warren first, whom, in response to my "I don't know how you guys did the 48hr treadmill run" replied with something along the lines of "Yes, it was absolutely horrific. I'd much prefer to do this. Bite sized 10km chunks and just keep moving.". Warren also told me that 3 more laps was entirely achievable when I said that 70km was my personal goal. I also had an amazing massage in this break, which I actually felt a little guilty for, but it was like a padlock had been unlocked in my calves and I could actually activate them again. I chatted to Louise, too, about her triathlon year (she's absolutely exploded onto the Guernsey triathlon Olympic-distance scene, gaining a place at the Island Games in her first year competing). As I looked listlessly at my Camelbak, asking if it wanted another go, I glanced the posters around the tent. There was one especially, a simple line on the 'wall' next to the tent door: "Never give up". Guess that's it then. I'm in it for the 12 after all.
JUST. KEEP. GOING.
Russell Brand podcasts from 2008, Alan Walker - Faded, Radiohead - Just and SIA's brand-spanking new release 'The Greatest' were my absolute lifeline - I was a slothenly ghost of a human from 40km onwards, blearily focussing only on these things. SIA's song, The Greatest, goes like this:
I know. Are you kidding me! SIA just had me dialled in. 'Running out of breathe but I, I got stamina...' 'Don't give up, I wont give up...' WHAT! SIA you bloody legend, release 4 DAYS before the race. I cannot thank her enough. Plus having Maddie's dancing in my head and trying to replicate it at 3am, pitch black, on my own along Bora Bora avenue (An industrial road, hilariously dubbed 'bora-bora' as it's the polar opposite of the idillic island of Bora Bora) really does something for keeping your spirits up!
50-80KM. THE FINISH.
The final 3 subsequent laps were lifted by the aforementioned audio treats filling my every cell. Laughing and dancing to myself, pretending that absolutely nothing was wrong at all got me through. There was also this overly ambitious hunting cat that sprung out at my feet at one point, which I have no shame in saying I screamed all girly-like at, which made me crack up each time I passed that same spot. I also have this obsessive habit of counting every single step (I do the same with pedal strokes) from 100 down to 0 on one foot, then the next, forcing myself to run all the way down to the 0 step and then on the other foot to even it out. Yeah, it sounds extremely like some runner's OCD thing has manifested itself in me, but it totally works. It switches off all other 'noise' from within my body and focusses all effort into every step. I'll probably write another post on my little endurance racing tactics, but try this one. It might work for you if you have trouble motivating yourself with words, try mindlessly counting down for hours on end!
Anyways, back to the loop. I convinced myself that everything was fine, had some good chat with who ever was back at the castle, bit of a stretch, and off for another 10km. Fifth lap took 1 hour 17, sixth took 1 hour 22, seventh 1 hour 21. The final 10km loop, 70-80km, I completed in 1 hour 10.
THAT WAS EPIC
The ol' take home messages of my 12 hour silliness;
THIS IS EPIC
The 'This is EPIC' non-profit organisation truly is. These guys have done, and plan to do, so much good for not just Guernsey's small-town attitude towards endurance sport, but primarily for changing the lives of people in Uganda and The Democratic Republic of Congo. I mentioned the 'Never Give Up' poster, but the other posters hanging in the tent actually have a lot more meaning behind them. Individuals affected by This Is EPIC from these nations have had their picture imposed onto a short story about them, reminding us all, in times of relatively negligible turmoil, this is why we are doing it, why the EPIC12 exists, and all their other incredibly insane events (midnight marathon, 48hr treadmill, I think next up may be 7 Ironmen in 7 days. Bonkers, these blokes) exist. I'm so honoured and humbled to be just a very small part of your incredible efforts, thank you so much.
And some more stuff if you want it...
Average 10km pace (not including breaks): 1 hour 11
Total Running time: 9 hours 32
Total Break time: 2 hours 28
Placement: 5th Overall (of 16)
Official Result: 80km in 11hrs42
1/2 wholewheat avocado & lettuce wrap (200 cals)
3/4 wholewheat peanut butter & banana wrap (300 cals)
15g Dried mango (50 cals)
1 'Nakd' bar (150 cals)
1 '9' bar (230 cals)
1/2 Coconut 'TREK' bar (230 cals)
75g 'Moo Free' Organic Milk Chocolate (435 cals)
500ml banana & water smoothie (100 cals)
Approximate total in: 1695 cals
Approximate total out: 5500 cals
Approximate Carb/Fat/Protein divide: 50%/40%/10%
I left the wraps & smoothie in the tent, but I carried the rest in a fanny pack (LOLs, fanny). I actually carried almost twice the amount I ate in that pack, but I didn't want to force anything down, I just ate when I felt it.
I drank most of the water in the first 40km, as I was such a sweaty beast. Otherwise I just ate when I took a break or was bored. I didn't get hungry (which has only ever happened to me during races. Otherwise I'm a grazing lunatic).
A little Jenny tip: I like higher fat vegan whole-foods to munch on, as you get more 'bang for your buck' calorie-wise (9cals per 1g fat, rather than 4cals per 1g carb or protein), and whole-foods tend to digest really well, even the 'Moo Free' chocolate was mostly cacao and coconut sugar, which don't just digest well, but don't bleach your insides.... more than I can say for any of those big marketed brands that give people GI issues. I've never had any digestion issues in any of my races, and I've stuck to this type of eating for all of my races, training and life. But that's a whole other blog post, if I ever get round to writing one. But if I had more thought towards my gameplan, I'd've come armed with more almonds and cashews probably.
If you have any questions, or just want to be friends, email or comment below.
Until next time, see ya in Mozambique my blog buddies!!
Burning flames lay behind me, hypothermic icy water lay before. A glance to trees overhead, leaves still as if a photograph. Unexpected calm and brightness from a 3am start in the Scottish highlands on the day of reckoning, the day of willpower, the day of Celtman. I set my bike, as I have many times before, shoes open and waiting, helmet and jersey, all at right angles. I equip myself with only swimming gear and a flapjack - my silent version of porridge for breakfast - and head to the bus waiting to take the 175 Celtman compatriots of 2016 down the road to the sheep shit midge field for photos and kilted musicians, and the scene of our beginning. I meet Andy Duggan, the lead swimmer of the pack and 6th overall finisher on the bus, and all around have erupted into conversation, laughs, cheer. It is the oddest thing to find yourself within 175 neoprene clad eccentrics, at 4am now, in the furthest reaches of the Scottish highlands, 39 countries represented, talking with someone who has such high ambition for their day. I was in awe and yet at peace. I felt connected to every one of them, we were all about to share something rather extraordinary that day.
On with the swim then. 5am gun. The deep water start was nothing worse than the water of the Sark triathlon in April, so I acclimatised quickly. Jellyfish provided a safari of entertainment for the sub-hour 3.4km swim, I was happy to see, when I emerged back in Shieldaig. I shot a smile at Sam, awaiting my shivering, collapsing corpse, assuring him the swim went great and I needed no hand to skip the rocks - I was ready to be united with my bike.
Bike. 6am. All going to plan. Andy and Ian had said that the initial steep climb out of Sheildaig was nothing when you are soaring from adrenaline and a quick transition. I certainly now seconded that opinion. I overtook three guys on the first climb-and-turn out of town and was loving the use of my legs. Amy (my trusty steed) had had an upgrade in chain and wheels. This was the very first ride I had on those wheels and I knew they'd feel like pushing clouds. The satisfying sound and immediate response to my surges up and down hill, tucked onto my aerobars, I knew this was going to be an epic bike ride. The swim was just a warm up, now I was racing. Now I was pushing.
The 127 miles of the Celtman bike course is pretty much one road. There are two junctions - one after around 6 miles and one at 110 or so. Having had my cycling experience mostly in either Cambridge or Guernsey, I have never quite experienced such a challenging, undulating, picturesque, mystifying ride. Mystifying: there is a 10 MILE section of uphill, climbing 1,000 feet, followed by a 20 MILE section of downhill. As I was still going down, I just couldn't compute how I hadn't hit sea level again yet, but there it was. A blissful 20 mile reward for a 10 mile stretch, starting at the 70 mile mark, of hell and sub 10mph pace. Well earned I'd say.
Through the race I was very aware of Ian gaining. For the first time in a race, I was not threatened by this though, only relieved - if Ian was close by, then it would mean that we were both on track for our shared time goals to reach the mountain by 3:45pm. Celtman required a car support team for each racer. Ian and I both had the expertise of Andy (whom has already earned himself a blue Tshirt in 2014) as driver, Kate as official photographer and extreme-flag-waving specialist, and Sam and Paris as water throwers/Olbas oil applicators. They were incredible. Although the race could probably be improved with designated water stops so avoid congestion (I did have to brake through support-vehicle traffic on several occasions when approaching a slower cyclist (OK maybe just a couple of occasions!)) but, actually, not only does it add another layer of uniqueness to the race, it is unbelievably boosting to see your flag, familiar faces and shouts of your name. I will be forever grateful to those guys for their help that day - they won't ever understand how much I needed it and how much it meant for them to have such enthusiasm over the course of the whole day, but especially their 7 1/2 hour car journey. Amazing friends.
I digress. It's 12:45pm and I know I need to be off this bike by 1:30pm. I make the calculations and must make each mile last no longer than 4 minutes maximum to ensure I have enough time. Numbers. Counting. Pedal stokes. Miles. Time. I count. 1:33pm my leg swings off Amy and Fiona, lovely Fiona, intercepts her whilst I rush to the porta-cabins, desperate for a rather uncomfortable comfort break. 50 seconds. shoes off, shoes on, camelback. 120 seconds. IAN! shoelaces. 180 seconds. Gone.
1:36pm, and right on target, Sam, Paris, Ian and I are all running. Finally. Legs are feeling great. Walking the first 2 miles uphill to the top of the Coulin Pass felt amazing to be upright. Got to the gate. Quick spin around, what a view. Conscience of the time restraints, I press on to be a part of the view, now cruising downhill, stones, forest, mountains. No breeze, breathing. Heart still beating, legs still pulsing, feet brushing over grasses and holes and all those cracks you get with foothill paths. This is where I want to be. Dodging, smiling, swinging, Sam and others sharing this incredible experience. Now I feel alive. Now I feel like I'm really achieving. I'm going to make it. Ian's going to make it. Sunshine, streams, smooth sailing. We had to average 12 minute miles to cover the 11 taking us to T2A, the mountain pass cut off, by 4pm. Totally achievable. We covered one of the more downhill sections in 8minutes30. Feeling so good.
3:45pm. There it is. And there's Ian. Sam turns to me and says that we could walk the rest of the way and comfortably get there. It's obviously hypothetical, but it's such a great relief. I thought that was the hard part over, I could then just cruise up the mountain and enjoy. Yeah. No.
3:55pm. Caught back up with Ian and Paris, we're heading up the initial mountain pass. It's fine, really. Andy and Kate had brought us to this initial section the previous day, and I knew on fresh legs it was totally fine. On tired legs, although obviously a challenge, I knew I could just keep going, keep stepping. 1 mile took us 49 minutes. The next took us 1hour1minute. It was steep. We reached the first peak and were greeted by another familiar face - Jez I had met at 530am in Guernsey two days previously in the taxi to the airport. He was marshalling the race in order to return the following year to quench his blue shirt demons. I apologise to Jez, as although he absolutely brought me strength, I couldn't help but then come to the realisation that this initial peak was by no means the hardest section done with. No. We weren't even at the highest peak yet. Sorry Jez - I wish I could have been more joyous to see you on my face (whilst I could still smile!) but, sitting behind you was the path I still had yet to stumble through, and it wasn't an easy one.
The ridge continued on for many, many hours. Ian, Paris and Sam were my heroes. Jokes, chat, stories, ramblings and utter nonsense is just what I needed to get through. Thank you. You can see from the pictures above how extreme it was. All the bike was forgotten, the swim a mere paddle. Atop the mountain range, climbing and descending peak after peak, boulder over boulder, foot in front of foot, I reached what I thought I could reach. But that wasn't enough. There were more footsteps, more boulders, more peaks. Onwards. I slowed. Ian, having trod these ridges before, surged on. The final hill was an out and back, so I knew when I saw Ian and Paris again that it wasn't far to the final peak. Then we got there. Over 4 hours on the mountain. I just didn't feel anything. I was looking at the view, the incredible view. The mountains as far as the clouds allowed. The lochs, the highlands. My heart went out to them. I was free. I felt nothing. Not ecstatic, not drained, not elated, not thirsty. I just was.
I shook it off. A moment I've never had before, but I know I will have again. The scree slope was next on the agenda, and I really needed to pee.
So, my thighs stinging from 'sterilising' my chaffed skin (didn't tell Sam about that bit!) we descended the ridiculousness that is the scree slope. Here's a word of warning for you - if you suspect a dodgy part of a course, something that is mentioned in safety briefing to be wary of, AND there's very little/no video or picture evidence of it, it usually means it's too dangerous for camera equipment. So it's pretty effing dangerous. That's a pretty accurate description of the scree slope. Remember my 'perceived' fitness level I was just knocking on the door of when I saw Jez? That was almost 5 hours ago now. I'm in the beyond, and all these beautiful Celtman compatriots around me were in exactly the same place.
Alright, we're in the home straight. Two more 'chapters' left. Just this rocky, boulder-y 5 mile path back to the road, which leads 6 miles back to Torridon and the finish line. What? In the bag you say? Hard part's SURELY over now you say?
Sam spins and sees my bloody face. All I know is that blood and grit has suddenly filled my mouth. Lovely. We had run out of water around 2 hours ago, and, kicking a rather big boulder, my feet didn't make it underneath me for this step down off a rock. Face first, I managed to plough the path of it's minor stones and pick them up in my upper lip. Sam was convinced I'd either broken my nose or pierced my lip with a tooth the way it was bleeding. Two American athletes that we were walking with turned around and offered a pain killer and a steri-strip. Sam cleaned it as best as he could, and I managed to fashion a rather fetching white moustache from the tape we used to hold my lip together. Again, though, I felt nothing. Not the pain, not upset, I was fine. Actually, in hindsight I actually just felt one thing - determined. I was going to finish this. The mountain rescue people and Sam were asking if I should continue, was I dizzy, what did I need. My finish line seemed compromised. But it never was to me. I knew I was fine, at least for another hour or so. I had no doubt in my mind that I would complete this (now) bloody race even if the fall meant I needed stitches. Which it didn't. I knew it wouldn't.
We reached the road and I was so pleased to not have to study each step any more. 9 hours on our feet now, 17.5hours pushing forward. Somehow, however, I just didn't feel that. I didn't feel the 3am alarm drying my eyes, the 5am swim drain my shoulders, the 7.5hour bike in my lower back, the mountain burn in my chest and deep into my quads. The grit in my teeth the blood dripping off my nose and chin. I didn't feel it. I could have just got out of bed on any given morning in Guernsey and be going for my usual 6 miler around Saumarez park. I wanted to run. To the corner, to the next post... ah screw it, let's not stop. Never stop.
I did a full body scan - surely I'm delirious? Surely I'm severely dehydrated or lacking in nutrition? But no. Me and Sam were laughing, smiling, contemplating how insane this race is and... where is this running coming from? We passed Ian and Paris. Hi! Nice moustache! We didn't stop. Sorry guys, I couldn't stop. I couldn't walk any more. Walking was harder than running. I loved the pace, I pushed harder. Sam followed suit.
Then there we were. Suzie and Ian's kids shouting, Andy, couldn't believe it. Kate, over the line, wondering what on earth was on my lip! The organisers, hugs, concern, beer. 18hours, 35minutes and 45seconds from the start line. I was somehow just floating. My feet didn't touch the floor.
There's an adventure. One that took me so much further than I had ever envisaged. I knew the distances, but it was inconceivable to train for. Especially from Guernsey - pretty much the opposite landscape to the highlands. But through getting through the unknown, physically this time, was the adventure. And I loved every second that I spent pushing past the limits I didn't even know I had set myself.
I'm going to try and not set limits any more. Why put up obstacles? 'I could never do that' 'It's too far' 'It's too high'. It's bollocks. Perhaps it's the risk of failure that is actually the problem. Whatever it is, the most free I've ever felt, is when I was on the peak, seeing where I'd come from, the landscape I'd summited. I felt nothing, but felt everything. I let go of what was small and unimportant, and held onto the bigger picture. It was only one day. but a bloody big one.
Jenny was born in Dorset, lived in Cambridge for a while, then Canada, and now lives in Guernsey, a weeny rock in the Channel between UK and France. She participates in long distance triathlon challenges and has a habit of coastal rowing. She can't really speak Spanish, although says 'hola' all the time as if she can. She can make a few distinguishable noises on a guitar (though none on a ukelele). She doesn't eat any meat, and very few animal products at all really.