With muffled good wishes and bleeps of GPS watches we are off, Luke and I. Easy, steady, careful. The first kilometre of the 106km Swans Way takes us through the forest and then suddenly spits us out into a field of thick, shoe-sucking mud. We pick our way carefully and reluctantly through the gick. It is a harbinger of much worse to come.
The third member of our merry band, Pete, is sadly not here, and we miss him. He is at home still suffering from the stomach bug of all stomach bugs. The only running he is able to do is to the toilet. His positivity, optimism and bird-spotting skills will be sorely missed, especially in the ugly later stages. So in his honour, we decide to build our own Pete Leonard Tribute Bird List for the run. (see Appendix 1.) Since I can barely tell the difference between a chicken and a tea cosy, this is not going to be easy. Bird 1: a pigeon. Pete is going to be well chuffed with this.
Three miles later, with no major navigational problems, we are passing under the roaring M1 via a dark underpass which, unlike during our recce in December, is not 6 inches deep in water. Having spent the first three miles warning Luke about this, it is part relief and part anticlimax. Our next objective is the distant glow in the sky that is Milton Keynes and our first checkpoint at Lodge Park (12 miles).
By 6.30am there are signs of imminent dawn and the birds begin to wake up. There is also more mud, but it is manageable even though our feet have been wet almost from the very beginning. The rolling hills and the early miles fall easily under our feet and we are optimistic. Dawn comes just as we approach the outskirts of Milton Keynes. The waters of the Grand Union Canal steam mistily as we trundle by the moored barges and the crack-of-dawn anglers. We are all optimism and hearty good mornings to passers-by, mostly dog-walkers and other runners at first. En route through the centre of the city, we take a pause next to the bizarrely malformed concrete cows for posterity. And for the rest.
Our first checkpoint comes in time, although we are already much slower at this early stage than my schedule predicted. (It is laughably over-ambitious – a big learning point from the run for me). Our stash of snacks is exactly where we had left it the night before. We pause to fuel up, send messages and take the odd photo. It is noticeable how quickly we start to get cold when we are not running, despite the strengthening sunshine.
The oddly satisfying experience of running through central Milton Keynes, with its strange mix of the rural, the residential and the industrial, occupies a further hour or more and it seems to take much longer to escape the disorientating maze of roundabouts and spreading housing estates and finally get out into the Buckinghamshire countryside. The delightfully named Bottle Dump roundabout marks the very end of the Milton Keynes section, at around 17 miles. At this stage we seem to have run about a mile further than I expected, however. We hardly need any extra distance.
Moving from urban to rural takes us back to the realm of mud again, but as we pass by Mursley and head towards Swinburne there are also long stretches of road which allow us to get our heads down and tick off another chunk of miles. We pass the gun shop (Bang! Just a free sample for you there) and climb up into Swinburne. The conversation is becoming increasingly freeform and random as our minds begin to wander with the accumulating effort of the run, covering the whole gamut of human endeavour including children's TV, daft Glastonbury band names, school assembly hymns of yesteryear and UKIP.
As we run, we are trying to eat and drink regularly since the whole run will consume roughly 6,500 calories. In addition to carrying fuel with us we are ably and wonderfully supported by our support team and our next rest stop, at the aptly-named Pilgrim Pub in North Marston, looms at the marathon distance: 26 miles or so. The miles are starting to accumulate now and it feels like we are making some meaningful progress, but we know that we are slower, and that it's going to get a lot harder.
Nonetheless it is a great boost to make it to the Pilgrim (closed at this time of day – probably just as well). Waiting for us there are Sarah, Rose and Ellen along with Amanda, PACE's CEO, and her husband Joseph. They've been waiting patiently for at least an hour and there is a light drizzle as we clank into the checkpoint.
“Daddy, can you chase me?” says Rose.
“I'm sorry sweetheart, I really can't.”
It is good to talk and eat, to laugh at the kids goofing around, and share stories of the run so far. After a quick inspection, my feet don't look too bad, all things considered: no sign of blisters or injury. Good. I anoint them with a fresh application of Vaseline and pull on some fresh socks.
The food gives us renewed energy and the new socks feel soft, warm and deliciously dry. Ah the infinite pleasure of a bowl of cold pasta and a fresh sock. In all, we take a 15-20 minute stop but it is soon time to get moving again. With waves and sweaty hugs, we start again. Right. Another marathon to be done now. Let's crack on.
I know that ahead of us is Quainton Hill, Buckinghamshire's highest point and reached by a steep and quite muddy climb. It is slow progress to get up there but the view is worth it, albeit somewhat obscured by low cloud. At this point, we are in good heart, and we are now fast approaching the half way point. (On reflection, you can delete the word “fast”.). A new conversation topic arises: Which Bit Hurts Now. Luke is feeling some ankle pain and, for my part, it is my customary stiffening quads that are giving me the discomfort.
The descent of Quainton Hill is much faster than the ascent and as we reach the flatter ground once again, it's time to grit our teeth and grind out a few dull miles on road as we head south, passing Waddesdon to our right. Cars and trucks roar past us as we tick off this rather dull and dangerous section, their speed and noise a stark contrast to our silent trundle. We are constantly hopping from road's edge to grass verge to avoid the hurtling vehicles. This is probably the least enjoyable section of the run so far but, somewhere in the middle of all this tedious tarmac, we pass the 30-mile distance.
It is a great relief to cross the A41 (very carefully) and head back into the fields. Now we face another hilly section of the Swans Way, climbing over several hills to reach Eythrope and Stone. It is the only section of the route that I have not been able to recce in advance (something I was about to regret). Neither of us know what to expect for the next three or four miles. The first climb is a brutal one, especially for me, and I drop some way back from Luke as we struggle upwards. A red kite (one of hundreds we see today) is loitering overhead, perhaps in the expectation of carrion.
Once we reach the top of the hill, we are able to resume running, and this section is indeed very beautiful, and not difficult to navigate. As we come into Eythrope, we enjoy passing huge houses with their rapunzel towers and their long winding fences. Over the pretty humpback bridge we go (pausing for a quick slurp of drink, watching the stately gallons of the River Thame ambling beneath our feet) and now we have another hill to climb. At the top is the village of Stone and our next checkpoint, at approximately 35 miles.
Again, I find this climb difficult. My quads stiffen up, as they often do when I tire while running. My running style, which never has had the liquid efficiency and grace of a Sebastian Coe or the purposeful rhythm of a Paula Radcliffe, now begins to resemble C3PO struggling through the sands of Tatooine crossed with an extra from Michael Jackson's 'Thriller' Video. I need to rest. Ahead of us as we crest the hill, slowly, is a man walking a huge shaggy dog and we aim to put in a final push to catch and run gloriously past it. This proves to be harder that I hoped and as I lumber past I find myself wondering if that dog is big enough to take a saddle.
Blessed relief is ahead, though. James and Halcyon await us beside the A418 with food, drink, and facilities for sitting down. Bliss. The checkpoint routine repeats itself once again, but I do notice that I am fumbling with my kit, my food and my shoelaces. It's getting harder to concentrate as I tire, and it's getting colder too. I start to feel a little doubt. The food and rest do me good, though, and when we restart the run I am suddenly re-energised. Another mile on roads and we are back on country trails again. This feels much better.
And so we grind out yet more miles. Ahead of us, about ten miles away, is the escarpment of the Chiltern Hills and the clear target point of the communications tower near Stokenchurch. Our route meets the Chilterns near that point, at Bledlow. There is still a long way to go to get there though and this section is winding and frequently muddy. One 400-yard section is thick with mud, made worse by deep ruts inflicted by the fat wheels of some huge farm vehicle. My quads scream with the effort. The batteries on my GPS give out at around 37 miles, but we must keep going. Another round of “Which Bit Hurts Right Now”. Knees for both of us, it transpires.
Little communities come and go. At Little Kimble, a group of Saturday amblers pass us as we sit in a small heap at the roadside taking in some more food (peanut butter and marmite sandwiches for me – my staple ultra-running fuel, though I am getting rather bored of them now.) A jolly fellow with a sweater tied round his shoulders greets us.
“How far are you going today, gents?”
“65 miles”, replies Luke.
“WHAT?!?” he splutters. “WHAT?!” he tries again. He clearly cannot believe his ears at the stupidity of the challenge. “SIXTY FIVE MILES?!” He walks on, shaking his head in disbelief . He has a point.
Sandwiches dispatched, with little relish – it's just fuel now – we continue. Forty miles. We are taking regular walk breaks as we need them. Fields, tracks, roads, mud, drizzle, come in random sequence. The clear skies of the morning are now largely gone, replaced by lower cloud with frequent patches of light drizzle. It hardly matters. We trundle through Ilmer and bimble into Bledlow. We are now approaching the point where we need to climb. Hurrah!
Ahead of us is the climb to Bledlow Ridge, where we will join the Ridgeway, and the 45 mile checkpoint, where we will meet with Pete Marshall who will be with us for the rest of the run. We are running massively behind schedule by this point, two hours or so. So it is a welcome sight to see Pete loom ahead. He has run down the hill to find us.
It is likely that we are not such a pretty sight for Pete. It really is getting hard now, for both of us. We are muddy, sweaty, tired and probably slightly grumpy. I marvel at the evident freshness of Pete's legs compared to mine, the ease with which they move, and the total absence of muck and filth below his knees. Those fresh legs help us with the tough climb, though, and at the pub in Bledlow we find Sarah, Alison and all four children waiting for us. The children are having a great time, running around chasing each other. They are much faster than we are.
By now, the light is starting to deteriorate. We should have come through here at around 3pm according to my ridiculous schedule, but it is now on the verge of dusk. At this point I am finding it hard to eat, even though I know that I must get as much fuel into me as I can – there is none left in my body by now. But it's hard to eat when you have no appetite. You just have to put it in, chew and wash it down with skwosh. It brings no pleasure.
But this is no time for negativity. There is a run to be completed. With some trepidation, we say goodbye to the girls, don headtorches in the deepening gloom and resume our run. Well, I say run. This is purposeful jogging at its best now. Urgent ambling. It's good to have Pete with us though. He exudes energy, though sadly not to the degree that it makes me run any faster. Ahead of us is a short but steep climb as the Ridgeway/Swans Way path skirts along the Chilterns escarpment. I had hoped that we would enjoy lovely sunset views as we ran along this section, but it''s just rather gloomy, and getting colder. On come our headtorches.
Except that mine doesn't. The batteries seem spent and the light is weak and feeble. This is a problem. The path is rutted and muddy, seriously so, after the rain of the previous night. It's worse than I was expecting. Ah well, nothing for it but to keep going. I switch off my stuttering headtorch and rely on the light from Pete and Luke's torches. Why didn't I take up snooker?
So picture the scene, dear reader. We have run about 46 miles now, Luke and I. It's getting dark and cold. The mud ranges from bearable, to deep, to shocking. I am feeling my way through the mud, occasionally tripping on stones or tree roots. We still have about 18 miles to run and that sounds like a very long way indeed. The next milestone is the M40 underpass, at around 48 miles. We have run out of jokes. Everything from the thighs down is hurting. My shoes are muddied stumps. And for some strange reason, probably to do with more than twelve hours of gasping and panting cold air, I have lost my voice.
At this stage of an ultra run, the mind can start to wander. The whole world is reduced to a tiny circle of bobbing light tracking over seemingly endless mud. I hear an owl hooting but whenever I try to raise my head and look around I trip. I drop behind Pete and Luke as I struggle on, but I can't afford to let this happen because I am reliant on the light from their headtorches. Thank goodness I am not doing this alone.
Slowly, very slowly, the sound of the M40 grows from a whisper to a roar and, after what seems like hours, we clank underneath the carriageways. Every step I take, somebody sticks a knife into the back of my right knee. Occasionally we see the distant light of a house where people are doing sensible things like opening a bottle of wine and sitting down. How I envy them.
My mind takes me back to Luke's Great Speech, made earlier in the day, and which stuck fast in my mind. As we struggle on, it comes back to me:
“It may not be fast. It may not be pretty. It may not be fun. But by Christ we will get there. It will, no doubt involve a lot of moaning, considerable amounts of swearing and perhaps the odd sob. But we will do it.”
Fine words, sir. We reach 50 miles. Yes, fifty miles. Just think about that for a moment. We are too tired to celebrate.
It is not over. On through the mud and the dark and the penetrating cold. I am thinking about Sarah and the girls. I am thinking about the amazing children that we are raising money for, and that remarkable £100 per kilometre sponsorship pledge of the day before. I am thinking about my bed. But I am also thinking that, despite the pain and the doubt and the terrible sense of inexorable deterioration that I am feeling, that this is a very special thing that we are doing, that we will remember this forever, that it's actually pretty brilliant.
Another thought becomes increasingly prominent in my thoughts; I am not sure how much longer I can go on. We stop at another checkpoint at 53 miles and the words “I've had enough” are hovering on the tip of my tongue. Luke looks dog tired, Pete looks concerned and I probably look like death. I want to stop and I don't want to stop. What worries me most, apart from the pain and the exhaustion, is the cold. Let's think again at the next checkpoint and review it.
And on we go. More slow, dark miles. Somehow I feel a tiny bit better. I find a compromise between the pain I feel and the need to keep moving, a sort of shambling trip-stagger that I can sustain for a couple of hundred paces before the need to walk again becomes too much. The next checkpoint is about five miles away. The last checkpoint was at 53 miles. 53 plus 5 equals.....er.....hold on.......bugger it, I can't work it out. I must be digesting my brain for energy.
It's all getting surreal now. I am running with Pete and Luke, cradled in the light from their headtorches, and we are trundling along a narrow lane with a thick, high hedge on one side. As I look at the hedge I see a hideous, misshapen figure lurching along the lane, silhouetted in the strangely bobbing light. It is me. I marvel at it. God, I look terrible.
Luke drops back from us, about 15 metres or so. I am wondering if he is OK and Pete and I are making backward glances to make sure he is still in contact with us. Pete's quiet encouragement is indispensable and I am sure I would not have got this far without him. Luke hangs on to the back of us, a point of bobbing light. When I slow for yet another walk break, he catches up and announces that he cannot go on.
It does occur to me, just for one brief moment, that I might go on further with Pete. But the knowledge that I am also completely spent quickly overtakes it. My right knee is on fire, so painful that I wonder if it will ever stop. I make my decision to stop, too. I call Sarah who is close by, waiting in a lay-by. What a romantic way to spend the evening on Valentine's Day...
And suddenly it is all over. It is a pity and a relief, a failure and a triumph at the same time. Luke and I exchange a brief sweaty manhug, and I shake Pete's hand and thank them both endlessly, as Sarah quickly arrives with the car. Now that we have decided to stop, the cold seems to overwhelm me and I find myself shaking violently with the cold. For me, that alone makes the decision to stop the right one. It's not worth risking hypothermia. I struggle to change out of my filthy running kit and am shocked to find that three of my toenails have dark blood pooled beneath them. Barely able to speak, I'm shaking so hard with the cold that I almost tip my cup of coffee over myself. The heat of the car, and the soft seat, feels like Heaven.
________
Yes, I said “next time”. This is not over.
The Credits
RUNNERS
Luke Martino
Mark Clay
Pete Marshall
and
Pete Leonard
SUPPORT CREW
Sarah Clay, Ellen & Rose
Alison Marshall, Zoe and Jack
Halycon and James Leonard
Amanda and Joseph Richardson
SPONSORS
More than 70 individuals, too many to mention but with special thanks to the Nick Latham, the Marshall Family and Peter Thomson & Bill Vestey of the Vision Charity, all of whom helped us raise over £12,500
Appendix 1: The Pete Leonard Tribute Birdlist
- Owls.
- Herons
- Black ones
- Condor. Fact.
- Pigeons
- Cocks
- Brown ones
- A Cat. (In my defence, it was a long way away and black and white. I thought it was a magpie).
- Red Kites. Dozens.
- Geese
- Swans. Fittingly enough.
- Rooks or Crows. Lets say both shall we?
- Mallards
Appendix 2: Glastonbury rock band names inspired by our run.
- Flooded Underpass of Doom
- Groinal Distress
- Malformed Biscuit
- The Mangled Sandwiches
- Furtive Slash
- Exhausted Kit Fumble
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