Philosophy 101

It's 5am on Sunday morning and I'm stumbling around a field on the edge of Glenmore Forest, looking for my husband. Had I been writing this in the late 90s it might very well have the prelude to a tale of pissed up teenage misadventures (and yes, said husband would still have featured, albeit in the days before we wasted all that money on a wedding that we should have spent on a campervan instead). Let's be honest, it could be the noughties, 2010s, or anytime in the last 25 years and that sentence wouldn't take much editing - just vary the location, remove the word 'teenage' and the job's a good 'un.

But while I may still be partial to the odd beverage now and again, I've added running for extended periods of time to the list of questionable things I do in a bid to avoid housework. At this moment in time I've been on the go since 12pm the previous day, I have run around a four mile loop of the aforementioned forest 18 times (remember this), and I do not feel good.

I stagger into our tent (sorry, Forestry Land Scotland, I mean event shelter) and begin to strip off my sodden clothes while demanding to go to bed. Again, bear in mind the context. I have indeed located my husband, but he's not about to get lucky. The only fuel I've taken on board for several hours has been sips of Lucozade, I can't stop dry heaving, and my last lap took approximately 23 years to complete. My stomach muscles have gone into spasm, it's 'that day' of my period, and my already terrible vision has begun to blur around the edges.

But I have sworn blind that I will not be a twat at this year's edition of Glenmore 24.

There are 7 hours still to go and I am not done yet, but if I don't take action now it'll be game over before long. I ask Jim to let me sleep for half an hour in an attempt to sort out my eyesight, recharge my batteries, and allow my rebellious stomach to settle. There's fuck all we can do about my uterus, other than pop paracetamol, which I've been doing every 4 hours for quite some time. Ibuprofen would be way more effective, but I'm (quite rightly) not allowed to take it as it could be harmful to my kidneys when I'm putting my body under this amount of stress. Later I will joke that I feel as though I'm about to have a prolapse and tell Jim he should have brought a spoon. This will make no sense whatsoever if you're not versed in the less romanticised aspects of sheep farming, but it makes us both laugh. I'll let you do your own research.  

 

An actual sign in Penrith town centre. I stuck a picture of this to my table.

After a surprisingly good (by my own standards) run at the Devil o' the Highlands a few weeks beforehand. I was confident that if everything came together on the day I could improve on last year's 100 miles  The niggles that had interrupted training earlier in the year seemed to have settled down, and I'd discovered a new determination to just try a bit harder and stop making excuses for myself. I still think the notion that 'it's all in your head' is absolute bullshit, but I've come to understand that self belief and a considered, deliberate approach to adopting the right mindset can definitely complement my physical fitness. If the pen is mightier than the sword then my weapon of choice for the weekend was a Sharpie. I wrote a few prompts on my arm because I've been guilty of reading a tonne of philosophical brilliance in the past, then forgetting every damn word as soon as I feel like shit mid race.

And when I say philosophy, the only one of the above that really merits such a highbrow description is P.A.W, or Perception. Action. Will. A summary of the tenets of stoicism is beyond the scope of this slightly crass and (not as) sweary (as everyone seems to think) blog post, but Ryan Holliday's book The Obstacle is the Way  really resonated in its simplicity and I referred to these ideas repeatedly throughout my race - and a lot sooner than I thought I would need to. Don't Shit Quit and It's Only Running aren't quite so intellectually rigorous, but they were no less effective. And the smiley face? I once listened to a podcast in which the phrase 'suffering is a gift' was uttered repeatedly. I wanted to vomit. I much prefer the idea that suffering is a choice - sure there's discomfort, but it's up to you how you react when you find yourself in those painful patches. Your pain is curated; you chose to be there. Choosing to smile when it hurts alters your mood, and it affects the way that other people respond to you. None of these ideas are new and I'm very guilty of rolling my eyes and thinking, 'well, yeah, obviously' when I hear this stuff. The difference is remaining present in the midst of the crappy feelings and deliberately putting all of this into practice.

If you're new to this blog and running is what brought you here, you might be wondering when I'll get round to describing, you know, some running. That's not really how I operate. I'll get there eventually, but the process of putting one foot in front of the other is one of the less interesting aspects of taking part in these events as far as I'm concerned, and Glenmore is a prime example of this.

Friday night saw us donning yellow caps and goggles and gave Jim the opportunity to dig out the item of clothing affectionately known as 'that fucking denim jacket'. August has been a bumper month for his, ahem, vintage fashion choices and a festival the weekend prior to Glenmore saw the return of a T shirt from his extensive Monsters of Rock collection, a relatively modern specimen from 1990.

He will never stop finding uses for insulating tape (it was a family friendly festival).

Dressed as minions clad in midge nets we shared a couple of beers with the rest of the Friday night crew then slept on an airbed in our car boot, before waking up on Saturday morning to find our gazebo upside down in the woods. It wasn't an ideal start to the day but was an early lesson in staying calm about stuff that we couldn't change.

I'm coming round to the idea that I can run a bit better than I generally give myself credit for, but people and community are what really make these events for me and there were so many to catch up with on the Hayfield. It was brilliant to finally meet John and Steven of Young Hearts Run Free Podcast renown in the flesh. I delivered on my long held promise of Mr Vicki's chilli jam, only to be met with a box full of Murray's pies and apple turnovers, not to mention a bag of YHRF 'merch'. Jim assures me there was a very serious discussion about the optimum temperature at which a Scotch pie should be consumed (drink may have been taken by certain crew members at this point). Luke warm was the verdict. Unlike John C I was unable to test this theory during the race - the man is a fuelling champion and we could all take lessons!

On the subject of fuel, it started so well. I took on a small 'real food' snack at the beginning of each lap and picked up a gel to eat at the half way point as I marched up the 'big hill' - not one you'd walk on a normal run but certainly long enough to merit hiking at least some of the way on a 24 hour effort. I also had Mountain Fuel Raw Energy in my drinks bottle and was keen to get plenty of liquid calories on board as an easy win in terms of taking on carbs. I might have been slightly over enthusiastic in this department.

I've already mentioned my period. I know that rarely a blog goes by without reference to menstrual mishaps. I won't apologise - my periods are a far more regular feature of my life than races and they have a significant impact on my training, among other things. And it's only going to get more complicated as I head into my forties when the menopause becomes a tangible reality, rather than a concept I was aware of but never really had to give much headspace.  I read a comment on one of Eilish McColgan's posts recently that said women used to just shut up and get on with it, rather than 'complaining'. The comment was made by a middle aged woman, which might seem to legitimise the notion, but I'd argue it simply underscores the point that women weren't allowed to talk about anything to do with their reproductive organs, and many of them internalised this narrative, which then normalised the silence. I can certainly remember a time when polite people used euphemisms for the word 'pregnant', and I'm not quite 41. I make a point of discussing this stuff with my 12 year old son, so I'm not going to spare the blushes of sensitive grown ups.

Back to my OTT consumption of liquids. About half way around my third lap I became convinced I was experiencing the kind of messy situation that makes Carrie look like an episode of Last of the Summer Wine.  All thoughts of careful pacing went out of the window and I tore back round to our gazebo announcing that I needed the sides on now so I could use the loo. I was met with the words 'oh aye' so explained that I was 'haemorrhaging in my shorts' at which point I was thrown one of my carefully labelled kit packages and told I'd be quicker nashing to the portaloo to sort myself out there. Turns out it was my bladder, not my uterus that was causing the issue. Definitely preferable and a good reminder to drink when I needed to, rather than necking water for the sake of calories. And while I'm making light of this subject here, menstrual flooding, or menorrhagia to use its medical name, is a thing we need to talk about more, this article from the inimitable Sarah Ledger is a powerful and eye opening read. 

I swear I smiled most of the time - just not while I was desperate to change my shorts!

It was uneventful for a while. I was running well and I felt strong. My stomach was aching with what felt like muscle soreness, as well as the inevitable cramps, but it was nothing more than inconvenient and simply needed to be sucked up. I had lots of friendly exchanges with other runners on the course but, as seems to be the case for me 90% of the time, I didn't fall into step with anyone who was running at my pace, so I spent a bit of time in my own head. The lapped nature of the course means that you receive loads of well wishes regularly though, and I'll admit to hamming up the enthusiasm and cheerfulness, even when I wasn't feeling it. That might sound a bit disingenuous, but the reality is that if you make a conscious effort to behave in a certain way then that becomes your reality. I genuinely enjoyed the brief exchanges with other crews each time I ran into camp and you feel as though you get to know people you've never met as the day goes on. A casual 'well done' or 'you're looking strong' early in the race becomes sincere and heartfelt encouragement towards the end of 24 hours. Or you might get called a fanny, depends on how you're conducting yourself and whether or not you can count...

A more substantial meal of soup and a veg samosa (I have practiced this, it's not as weird as it sounds) after 8 laps and 50K went down really well and seemed to help ease the ache in my stomach, which made me question whether I might just have been hungry. Then a couple of laps later the soup made a sudden and completely unexpected reappearance, which was all the more disturbing for it being tomato flavour and very bright red. I was momentarily shocked but after a quick inventory realised that I felt fine and remembered a phrase from yet another podcast about the importance of mindset in endurance sport  - Puke and Rally - so I did just that. 

Anyone who has ever run a long way will know that you can feel spectacularly bad for a period of time and if you can hang in there it will generally pass, but I don't think I've ever swung between extremes quite as often as I did on Saturday night/Sunday morning. When I could run I was moving really strongly and my body felt great. Then suddenly my energy levels would dip dramatically and the dry heaving would start again, which made running impossible. There were a few laps of purposeful hiking, one of which I shared with the legend that is Fiona Rennie, then I'd feel better again and was able to resume running really well. Until my stomach rebelled for the umpteenth time. The upshot of this was that I struggled to eat anything at all and even the thought of liquid fuel made me gag. Jim had a big pan of lemon and ginger tea on the go which he filled with honey to try and get some calories down my neck, as well as settle my stomach. 

I can't remember when I talked myself into packing in. I knew I couldn't beat last year's distance and I was completely spent. I was calm and rational and told myself that it would be a totally legitimate decision to rest up, recover well, and come back stronger for the next race. Then Eminem's Lose Yourself started to play on my carefully curated musical selection (which I'm really sorry for sharing with entire forest but my headphones had gone kaput earlier in the week) and it made me think of my son Rory as it's his favourite song. I didn't want to go home to tell him I'd sacked it off because it was hard. This re-engaged my brain and I remembered all the prompts I'd scrawled on my arm hours ago (now covered by long sleeves), told myself I didn't have any other races booked this year, and made a deal with myself that I'd just do the best I could, regardless of the numbers. I could define what success looked like on my own terms, today, not based on what I'd done in the past. The biggest win this time would be managing myself and overcoming the spiraling negativity that has scuppered more than one race in the past.

So I kept on keeping on, which included that entirely necessary sleep (40 minutes in the end), followed by some fried potatoes, sugary coffee, and a piece of cake, after which I knocked out two sub 47 minute laps. There was no doubt I had the legs to keep going, I just had to manage my guts. Fuelling was still a challenge but I'd eaten a decent amount after my rest, so I opted to sip lucozade every time I got back to camp and not think about it too much. There were still instances of heaving, and some actual puke, but I had a fire in my belly and I wasn't stopping.

I hadn't asked Jim to count laps, I'd done it myself all day. When I narrate this next bit that might sound like a foolish decision, but I think it turned out to be one of those instances of believing exactly what I needed to in the moment.

I'd gone to bed after 18 laps, which meant I would need to run another 7 in order to break 100 miles. I set off after my sleep with fewer than 6 hours to go, so I knew this was out of the question. I'd even attempted some maths (never my strong point) to figure out how quickly I'd have to run each lap to make it, and although the figures were approximate, I knew it wasn't possible. Bear in mind that I very rarely look at my watch when I run.

Even after all this calculating and armed with a very basic understanding of physics, I somehow managed get mixed up and tell myself I'd done more laps than I had in reality, so when I came back to camp on what I thought was my 24th lap with an hour and fifteen minutes to go before the race was over, doubting whether I could get round, Jim kicked my arse off the field and told me I had more than enough time. I was about half a mile onto the course when something made me check the mileage. It was probably the rational part of my brain reminding me that, even though I'd run an absolute blinder since getting back onto the course, it really wasn't possible that I'd managed 7 laps. And yep, my watch said just over 92 miles. I laughed so hard I nearly peed myself. Again.

I arrived back into camp to cheers and applause from Jim and everyone else who I'd told this would be my 25th lap. I just shrugged, smiled, and explained that in yet another classic example of twattery a la Jodes, turns out I can't count. I think they were more diasppointed than I was, and there may have been a bit of name calling - but that's all in the spirit of Glenmore, right?

There were about 20 minutes left for me to charge around the little loop as many times as I could. I was knackered now that the end was in sight, but still feeling strong. I love the closing minutes of this race: support crews go nuts; you get to congratulate your fellow runners on the way round; and there's always somebody going hell for leather trying their heart out to hit their target - proof that there's usually something left, even when you think you're spent. Everyone who has wished you well over the course of the 24 hours is genuinely rooting for you and the sense of camaraderie and celebration is overwhelming.

Then there's Noanie and Sheona's party tent, which needs a blogpost all of its own!

I covered 97.78 miles in the end but I honestly feel like the numbers are secondary to the way I handled myself. I could do a lot of shoulda woulda coulda in terms of how long I slept for and whether I could have been just a bit tougher at times, but I'm not going to. I made the decisions I thought were best at the time and I'll stand by them.

And I didn't twine once.

Doing it for the kid.