Let's Talk About Failure

 'Athletes build up a memory bank of all the bad patches they have successfully navigated that they can draw on when things are difficult. Mental toughness is not just the willingness to face a challenge but also the belief that you can come out the other side. Coming through a lot of bad patches turns athletes into optimists.' (Michael Stocks, One Track Mind: What Running 150 Miles in a Day Can Teach You About Life).

'The "ultrarunning is ninety per cent mental" trope is [...] on my list of things that are bullshit.' (Ally Beaven, Broken 2020: The Year Running Records Were Rewritten).

I could save us all an awful lot of time here and give you the Cliff Notes on this one: I tried to run 105 miles. It was very hot. I was exceptionally miserable and incredibly tired, so I went home. The end,

But we all know I'm not going to miss an opportunity to talk about myself at length. It may, or may not bear some relevance to the actual race.

I don't really 'do' mantras (AKA motivational bullshit). I love language and am probably more stirred than the average person by beautiful writing and big ideas. But I do get bored seeing the same old aphorisms plastered all over social media on pictures of sunsets, all context mangled to fuck. And let's not get started on that most overused of words beginning with 'i'.

Both of the above quotes resonated strongly though. Michael's because he had captured a sentiment that I have often tried to articulate but never managed to nail quite so precisely; Ally's because it was as though someone had bugged my internal monologue every time I read one of those Facebook posts that gleefully insists 'it's all in your head.' Aye, right, I think to myself, I'll just ignore my alarm clock next time it goes off at 4am and I'm planning to head out in the pissing rain to run up and down a hill repeatedly. If I just think happy thoughts and spout a bit of cod psychology I'll manage 100 miles with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. Like shite.

And if you'd asked me ahead of this year's Lakeland 100 what I thought were my strengths, I'd have absolutely said my ability to ride out the rough patches and trust that things will get better - to draw on that memory bank of all the times that things went to shit and I came out the other side. While I ridicule the notion that it's all in your head, I am resolute in my belief that mind and body are not the discrete entities people like to talk of them as; if you start to think dark thoughts then the physical side will likely begin to unravel as well because ultimately they are one and the same.

Apparently I'm out of practice.

It wasn't all terrible. Lakeland weekend is something else, I've written about it in previous race recollections and it never disappoints. This year's theme of 'getting the band back together' was well judged and perfectly captured the desire to be part of something at once so crackers yet so familiar. As much as I love low key races, I am always won over by Marc's charisma and full tilt enthusiasm, while Uncle Terry stands back and provides the perfect foil to all the exuberance. The community these guys have created is second to none. I'm a self-confessed cynical bastard, but I regularly sob at various points throughout this bonkers weekend in July, sequestered in an out of the way Lakeland village with a bunch of fucking weirdos who honestly believe that paying £100 to subject themselves to hours of potential misery is a legitimate hobby.

Are you wondering when I'm going to shut the fuck up and talk about running?

I'd love to regale you with tales of drama and set myself up with a decent excuse for stopping when I did, but the truth is it wasn't very dramatic. It was hot from the start and the climb up Walna Scar clearly took its toll on a number of people. I was quite staggered by the pace some folk were adopting very early on -  I'm fairly convinced none of them were going to win. I went for a 'nose breathing only' strategy in a bid to keep the effort level within acceptable parameters, and I felt pretty awesome. The training that I'd struggled to trust actually felt like it might pay off.

This section was the scene of my first unsuccessful recce. My mam had offered to drop me at Coniston then meet me at Buttermere however many hours later. The weather was shocking but I was looking forward to the run anyway, and I had my faithful, inexhaustible hound for company. Unfortunately we ran into cows and calves just as we hit the tarmac on the way to Seathwaite. I did attempt to navigate my way around them but there was no escape. I then wondered if they might be especially quiet, seeing as the farmer had left them on what must be a fairly well used right of way, so attempted to make my way quietly through them. Cue big mardy bitch sticking her head down and full on charging at the dog. This is the point at which well meaning folk will offer advice about letting the dog outrun the cows. Newsflash: I've lived on a farm all my life, I'm not daft (although if you stay with me I'll offer plenty of evidence to the contrary), and all my big soft mutt does is try to hide between my legs! We escaped unscathed but I cut my losses and ran back to Coniston, interrupting mam's Wetherspoon's breakfast in Keswick to request extraction.

Loki Laird: chief cow pisser offer.

And on the subject of Seathwaite: did you know there are two of them in Cumbria? Having lived in the county my whole life (bar a few months here and there north of the border during early childhood), I, unsurprisingly, was well aware of this fact. Bear this in mind, read on and weep.

Inspired by a podcast about the power of boldness and goalsetting (I know, get me responding to motivational bullshit - or Scientology for Runners as a certain member of my erstwhile WHW crew refers to these particular chaps - all in the ancient Scottish tradition of mercilessly taking the piss, you understand) I decided I would recce the route from Seathwaite to Dalemain, setting off on a Friday evening and replicating race conditions. I'd been dithering about whether I even wanted to toe the start line in July and I thought making that commitment - really nailing my colours to the mast - would be fantastically motivating.

It might have been, if I'd gone to the right fucking Seathwaite.

Instead of feeling all intrepid, capable, and generally full of Fuck Yeah vibes, having realised my mistake I found myself running full tilt back along the B5289 to meet Jim, who had made it as far as Keswick before my text got through. It's a testament to his almost limitless patience that he didn't call me a stupid twat, however much he must have been thinking it. The temptation to slide into self-flagellation and misery was strong, but I set my alarm for 3am and drove to Pooley Bridge to run an extended, 20 mile Fusedale Loop the next morning, followed by an out and back from Mardale Head to (almost) Kentmere (more cows and calves) on the Sunday. Not the planned weekend mileage, but salvaging something and working on my mental resilience.

Fat lot of good it did me.

Anyway, I digress. It's my blog, I can do that. 

I can honestly say that up until Braithwaite the race felt like one of those rare, life affirming experiences that you hope for during these challenges, but which rarely manifest themselves. I had started with my friend Fran, who I met during the Cheviot Goat in 2018 but haven't seen since before all the Covid madness kicked off and we fell back into the same easy, putting the world to rights type of conversation that had characterised our first meeting. Topics covered ranged from the menopause right through to the fact that my childhood obsession with tea was probably established by my nana and granda's ownership of a Teasmade, but ruined when a bout of the mumps played havoc with my tastebuds, aged 5. Fuck knows what fellow participants thought - they probably reckoned we could've gone a lot faster if we'd actually drawn breath.

All smiles at the start on Friday night.

It was a joy to see Eskdale in glorious weather. It was pissing down and blowing a hoolie when I'd done an out and back from Seathwaite to Wasdale Head at the end of June (left the dog at home). I failed to put my waterproofs on before I actually needed them and had lost the use of my hands by the time I started to descend to Wasdale - it was a valuable lesson but one that bore absolutely no relevance to the conditions on race day.

Worth the entry fee.

 Checkpoint strategy was slick, we both remembered to eat regularly, there was a bit more bowel activity than I would have liked but I had anticipated that might be the case. Running and eating at night will mess with your circadian rhythms, so it's likely that something will have to give. I'll break with tradition and spare you the gory details, but safe to say it wasn't especially problematic.

I loved the climb up Black Sail. I was still keeping the effort levels low but I felt strong and that path is a joy when it's dry. I prefer not to stop when I'm climbing, but you absolutely have to look back at the procession of headtorches making its way up the valley like some kind of luminescent serpent. The moon was an added bonus - I felt privileged to be alive in that moment with a great friend, doing something I absolutely love. We were still chatting relentlessly which was helping to keep my nerves at bay about the forthcoming descent. I'm shit at technical downhills. I know that these things become self fulfilling because we tend to avoid things we find hard, and I am determined to practice. But it will always be an up hill struggle for me (see what I did there) because there's a loose connection between my feet and my brain. It wasn't pretty, but I did get down in one piece, there were 5 points of contact on occasion; at no point did I hum the A Team theme tune. 

The legendary Wasdale Headtorch Snake.
Photo credit Neal Bailey.

 

Other moments that stand out are the climb up Sail Pass, which is a fairly horrible shock if you've never done it. but being the navigational fuckwit I am I'd recced that section repeatedly, so I'll admit to chuckling under my breath at the responses of those less well initiated. There was much concentration coming down the other side (on my part at least, Fran is a fully paid up mountain pixie on descents). The top had been shrouded in a veil of thick cloud, but it disappeared as we made our towards Barrow Door. All was quiet in that particular dawn time fashion, when the air was suddenly rent by the words 'MRS FUCKING LAIRD' and the inimitable Amanda Kirtley was upon us. What a woman. I've never met anyone more unashamedly themselves and she is an absolute breath of fresh air. She spent the next ten minutes regaling us with tales of her Olympic grade arse chafe while quizzing me about my snazzy shorts. It was a lift I didn't even know I needed.

I mean, it definitely wasn't all shit.

On the subject of chafe, I was having problems. When I revealed my sides at Braithwaite there was much concern and I knew it was gross. I really wanted to cover them up and I had dressings, but I was universally advised to apply more lube (bunch of weirdos, etc). I got a brilliant surprise as we made our way out of Braithwaite, munching on our sarnies, and I heard someone sternly telling us we were meant to be running. All of a sudden my great pal Ange Wilson was running alongside us - casually out to jog round Coledale Horseshoe at half five on a Saturday morning. If I tend to resist using the word 'inspirational' I'll always make an exception for Ange, she's an absolute force of nature and the utter joy she takes from the fells is infectious. She took a couple of great photos too.

Things started to go wrong in Glendereterra. I say that, but I was moving well. My head was a bit of a shed and for some, idiotic reason, I decided to crack on by myself. Fran and I had agreed we would run our own races and if that meant we stayed together then so much the better. I'm not sure why I felt the need to up the pace, but in all fairness I still felt well within myself and wasn't struggling in the slightest. The chafing round my waist was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore and it needed attention. The medic at the Blencathra Centre furnished me with some most excellent dressings (not before offering my yet more lube - I did begin to wonder if this is actually some kind of fetish club and I'd missed the memo - did I mention my sides were actually weeping?) 

I was also having issues with my feet, which in recent years I haven't, so I'm not very well practiced at dealing with foot maintenance. I cobbled some taping together and covered a few hot spots with Compeed, but I knew I'd done a less than satisfactory job. While I was trying to mitigate any future problems, Fran had come and gone. It was the first time I'd spent any length of time in a checkpoint and I was seriously demoralised.

The next section proved to be a similar story. Something that frustrated me was my inability to tap into a power hike. It's usually one of my strengths but I felt as though I was operating on flat batteries. Conversely, running was pretty easy and everything hurt a lot less too. The Old Coach Road, nemesis of many a Lakeland 100 competitor, was a breeze in some ways - I was moving very strongly despite wanting to cry and the checkpoint volunteers at Dockray (all hail the marshals) said it was the best effort they'd seen for ages when I ran in. Lots of soup, more foot issues that I struggled to remedy, and I set off on a miserable trudge towards Dalemain.

Every step on this section was purgatory. It's a long one at 10 miles but the contour around Gowbarrow should be enough to lift anyone's spirits - the views across Ullswater are breathtaking. I could not bring myself to give a flying fuck. I tried every trick I knew but no matter how much the logical parts of my brain knew I'd pick up if I could just Just. Stop. Twining, I couldn't make it happen. It was hot and it had been for a very long time - perhaps the insidious effects of the heat had worn me down more than I gave them credit for, I honestly can't put my finger on what was wrong, but I was absolutely fucking sick. I wanted my medal, I wanted that cry of HUNDRED FINISHER, and I wanted the man to bang the pan as I made my way into the finishers' area, I just didn't want in enough to face the prospect of a 20 hour death march.

My phone had been pinging like crazy so I stopped to check my messages (something else I never do as a rule) only to discover that Jim and Rory were at Dalemain. I sobbed properly then because I knew the moment I saw them any resolve I had left would desert me.

I did say it wasn't dramatic, I was just fed up. I ate, I drank (pee colour was A1 throughout), I genuinely don't think I overcooked it. I don't think anyone would accuse me of being undertrained or of not having a handle on what to expect from the route. It just wasn't my day.

And that's OK. It's a long time since I bought into the Death Before DNF mentality. I face up to my blinding mediocrity as a runner on a daily basis and I put the miles and the hours and the hills in anyway. More than that, I take an enormous amount of pleasure in doing so. But when there is no fun and all I'm experiencing is abject misery, I don't feel the need to dig myself into a hole so deep that it puts me at risk of injury and makes me never want to show up again.

I failed last weekend. You can reframe that however you like, but I set out to run 105 miles and I did not achieve that goal so, yes, I did fail. As a very wise, beardy chap told me though, we've got to look at this sport of ours holistically. This was one run. It does not negate all the many hours of hard work I put in; my fitness will not desert me over night; and I will absolutely learn from having failed this time. I'm pissed off enough to look at my training, think about what I can do differently, and come back stronger.

I was genuinely going to have another crack the the West Highland Way next year but Jenkins and Hassan have already threatened to hack my Results Base account, so ballot permitting, I'll come back for another bite in 2022.

Fran finished in 39 hours and 50 minutes. She is a proper legend.