CUTTING IT FINE
Wonce a two-and-a-halfhour
HAT WAS advantage over Mike Hartley’s 1990 record time had been reduced, over just a few hours, to around 20 minutes.
‘Can you hear me?’ said Mark. It seemed almost sinister at the time, but it was needed. When he got a nod and a faint yes, he added, ‘You really need to get on and do this’. Tim joined me, a familiar face and very welcome. My great friend, filmmaker Matt Green of Summit Fever Media, joined me too, a face less welcome at the time (but very much so in hindsight). Nikki had been bullying me (and rightly so) to move quicker. Matt now took over her role. He was so concerned about my weird behaviour – and that I was throwing the record away – that he had largely stopped filming. As for me, I didn’t even know what record we were going for; I just wanted these people to stop nagging me.
It’s all a bit hazy, but I do remember some horribly slippery woods. A very steep hill on a road. Some appallingly skiddy moors. And a ferocious up-and-down coast path, though in lovely evening light. It all felt silly and pointless, and I was annoyed that everyone else wanted me to hurry up. I complained of tendonitis, but refused to take any painkillers. ‘You weren’t in a good place,’ remembers Tim, diplomatically. ‘You were running like a question mark,’ recalls Nicki, ‘and asking where these people were taking you.’
To address the question mark: I don’t know when the lean developed. I had mentioned tendonitis, so people figured it was that. We can’t be sure without blood tests, but it is probable I was leaning, falling over and behaving like a drunken child because I was in a state of hyponatremia (overhydration/low sodium) and my brain was swelling. That may possibly sound like a good thing, especially for a bear of little brain like me. But it can be fatal.
Despite having over 50 ultra-distance races and challenges under my belt buckle, I had no idea it was happening. It’s still a bit of a mystery how I got into such a state. To be honest, I’m rather embarrassed about it, but I also want to share the lesson I learned. We’re pretty sure I consumed 400ml liquid/hour, maximum, including food, which doesn’t sound like loads. But it was cool, well below 10C, so maybe I wasn’t sweating as much as normal. Cutting out my electrolytes may have been significant, too, but probably not as crucial as the fact I drank just a little bit more than perhaps I needed to, for 39 hours. I usually drink to thirst, but I thought I could hydrate better and was aiming for 500ml/hour, which probably wasn’t right for me in those conditions. It’s a cautionary tale.
It was a glorious evening as I staggered comically/alarmingly down the steep and cobbled descent to the beach in Robin Hood’s Bay. In a video I saw later, someone gasps, ‘Jesus Christ!’ as I come into view, with the tone making it clear they have just seen a figure more Dr Frankenstein’s monster than messiah – I was a bit ‘leany’. My vague memories are of feeling slow and unstable. I staggered to the high-water mark, dipped my toe (also a tradition) and stopped, somehow without falling over.
Kind locals were out in force; people clapped and cheered. My confusion mingled with a weary, semi-conscious relief. Chocolate pudding was smeared on my face. I mumbled something indecipherable as I held my children’s Extinction Rebellion flag and gave a goofy grin.
As the scene played out around me, I began to gather I hadn’t totally cocked things up. But despite thinking of nothing else but 39 hours and 36 minutes for weeks beforehand, and regularly asking for updates for the first three-quarters of the run, I did not ask what my time was for a while. (It was 39 hours, 18 minutes and 40 seconds – just 18 minutes ahead of Hartley’s time, though I’d been over two hours ahead of it for most of the run.) I just knew I could stop running – if the way I was moving in the latter stages could be classed as running.
Someone thrust a pint of ale into my hand. It was my first alcoholic drink for three months, though, ironically I’d been behaving like a drunk for hours.