The Dorset 100...finally, the final part...

....and it's only taken a month to finish this off!

Leg 14: Long Bready to Portesham, 4.5 miles, 624 feet up, 634 feet down

I summoned my remaining strength, which took 2.5 nano-seconds, and pointed my feet in the direction of the door. There can be a balanced argument to be had about recceing the route. The obvious plus is that you (fingers crossed) have more of an idea of where you are going. The downside, which I hadn't considered before this point, was that I knew where I was going next, and I didn't like it. 

The hill stretched up into the clouds. I climbed. I saw that the friendly guy who had run past me earlier was a long way up ahead, an untouchable red dot climbing higher and higher. The path was stony and uneven, and each time I jarred my foot against a stone I cursed the hill and all it's stupid stones, and the sun that was too hot, and my bag which hurt, and my knee which felt like something had snapped in the back of it, and, and, and.....

Argh.

Sob.

I reached the top.

And came down the other side. 

And kept going for a couple more miles.

And arrived at Portesham, the final checkpoint. And also where our holiday cottage was, which was just a cruel twist of fate. A few hundred meters away was a shower, and my bed. My bed!!! Or, 10 km further past that was The End Of The 100.....

Which was it to be???

There wasn't even any competition. It was The End that I wanted, that I'd always wanted, and now was only 10 km away, and I was going to get there if it was the last thing that I ever ever did (at least, the last thing before bed).

But let us not get ahead of ourselves. The final checkpoint was yet to be experienced before tackling that. And here occurred my only food related disappointment from the whole event; that I didn't feel up to the chips that were being cooked and filling the hall with their crispy delicious goodness-y smell. Sensing my physical and emotional distress at this realisation, the man at the checkpoint instead magiced a plate of fresh watermelon and offered me a slice. It was delicious. Cool, sweet and thirst quenching. At that moment, it felt like the elixir of life. If I was allowed only one food for the rest of my life, it was, and still would be, watermelon. My Mum ran off back to the house to get my freeze spray so I could blast my knee. My Dad went off to find Andrew, who had got lost trying to find me. The two lovely ladies who were supporting their husbands were there again, and one of them was so nice to me that she made me cry.

I pulled it together. I had to run past a photographer who was outside the hall, and I wanted to look OK in the photos. I don't co-ordinate my outfits for nothing.

Leg 15: Portesham to The Finish, 6.5 miles, 762 feet up, 870 feet down

As I was running up the high street in Portesham, a big white duck was waddling down the road towards me in a rather zig-zag fashion, in the direction of the pub, and causing all the cars to slow down and wait for him, while he gave them a fowl look.

I climbed the hill that we could see from our house, up to Portesham Quarry. As I got near to the top, a couple sat on a bench called out to me that it was 'easier going the other way.' Haha! 

In blatant disregard for this advice, I continued on to the top, and turned a corner. Oh nope, that's not the top yet, must be just over that rise there. Oh, oh no, still not there. Nope, still going up. 

Sigh. Ooooh, no wait! Here comes the self clip! Ohhhh, no wait. It's at the top of a stile. Are you having an actual laugh?? At the top of a stile. I ask you. At the top of a stile after 97 miles. And why are there so many stiles on this last bit anyway? What's wrong with gates? Ran in a straight line along the top of the ridge for a mile or so, which was actually quite nice, if I ignored the pain in my right knee. That thing I mentioned before about something snapping? Yeh. I think something has actually snapped. And it feels like it might be something quite important. And that freeze spray has started to wear off. Why didn't I bring it with me? I'm a complete buffoon. Well, I'll just have to get on with it. At least it hurts all the time now, even if I walk, so at least that's not a temptation any more. 

To come down off the hill, the instructions said we had to go in a sharp zig-zag pattern down the side of the hill, which reminded me of the duck from before, and I started laughing to myself. Quacking up. I was also having a bit of a panic, because as well as all these self clips I've been going on about on the instructions (which are basically little clips at points of the route where you could technically have taken a short cut by cutting a corner), there are also two 'surprise' clips, which I presume are there to keep you on your toes, and on the straight and narrow for the whole event. Only thing is, I've only got one of these stamped on my card, and there's only about 3 miles left, and there's already a marked clip on this part of the route, so I can't imagine they'd put two clips in the last 3 miles. What if I've missed one? Will I be disqualified? Oh my days. I can't cope with this. It's all too much.

At that point, I was saved, as I arrived at the charming 13th century church of St Bartholomew, which is interestingly located in a farm yard, although, I suppose, the 13th century church was probably there first. I had reached the final manned clip point at St Bartholomew's Church, and as well as saving my blood sugar levels from siking further to the floor, it saved my spirits, as the man at the checkpoint reassured me that I hadn't missed the surprise clip, the surprise was that there wasn't one. Ha. Ha. Ha!

Right then, that's it, now that's cleared up. One more push to the end. There was the inevitable hill, which by now I had become so used to that it didn't stir any emotion in me any longer, and I resigned myself to the climb.

I was keeping an eye on my watch. It was creeping closer (obviously) to 6 pm. My goals for The 100 had shifted, ever so slightly, from before starting to this point:

1. November 2015 (on entering): brilliant, I've got a place, I can totally win this and set a record and I can quit work and travel the world as a professional ultra runner/ adventurer 
2. January 2016 (midway through regular winter ultras): this is quite hard, maybe I'll just aim for finishing first
3. February 2016: I am so ridiculous. I'll just try to finish in 24 hours
4. March 2016: Well, maybe 26 hours
5. Beginning of April 2016: No, maybe 28 hours
6. Mid-April 2016: 30 hours?
7. End-of-April 2016: Whatever, I'll just try not to get timed out
8. Start of 100: yes, number 7 sounds sensible
9. Miles 10 - 50: no, I am underestimating myself; repeat steps 1-8 
10. Mile 55: repeat steps 4 - 8
11. Mile 65: repeat steps 6 - 8
12. Mile 70: repeat step 7
13. Mile 75: Sod that, I'll just try not to meet that man from earlier in A&E (I really hope he's not there either)
14. Mile 80: never mind that, I'll just try not to meet him at the mortuary (I really really hope he isn't there either)
15. Mile 90: get it together girl, enough of this, back to step 6
16. Mile 95: chuffing nora, time's getting on, better step on it if step 6 is still on the cards
17. Mile 96: oh my days, how has only one more mile passed
18. Mile 97: seriously?
19. ................

Ya-de-ya-de-yah. Don't think. Just run. Just do it.

Coming down off the ridge now and into this town, wherever that is. Upwey I think. Oh goody. The end is here. Somewhere. I can see an man up ahead. As I got nearer, I could hear he was singing. It was lovely. I smiled and said hi, and he sang something back. It was beautiful.

Upwey was beautiful too. All pretty old houses and a meandering river and everything. I had a last panic, as the instructions instructed to continue down a lane passing a LH bend followed by a RH bend and under old railway bridge, but didn't instruct for how long there would be until the old railway bridge. After a few minutes (which was magnified to half a millennia in my warped sense of time) I was about to turn back and throw in the towel, when I saw the blessed railway bridge. I was now on the very last point of the instructions. Point 15.7.

Point 15.7 said I had to run along the main road, to the second pelican crossing. I could see it in the distance. there was a little group of people gathered by it cheering. They pressed the button on the crossing, and as I approached the little green man lit up, and I crossed the road to the school. Hurrah!!!! The end!!! 

Oh no, wait a minute. It's not quite here, it's up the road, across the grass, up the path, and into the hall.

NOW we're finished!

30 hours and 1 minute. 

1 minute. Are you serious? Yes? OK, fine. 30 hours and 1 minute. I'll take that.

I had wondered for a long time what it would feel like to finish. And here's the point where I was expecting to say, modestly, that well, it didn't feel any different, it was a bit of an anti-climax, I was too tired to be bothered etc etc, like you often here people say. 

Whatever!

It felt FANTASTIC!!!!

Even through feeling a bit tired and sore, I was so excited to have finished it, although I wasn't able to express it very well at the time. I sat down in the hall with Andrew and my Mum and Dad, and a nice lady brought me a cup of coffee (my first in 30 hours!) and a tub of ice cream. Then I went to the St John's Ambulance people to get my blisters sorted out (we won't even go into detail, well not much, I just had 10 blisters in the end). I really wanted to stay around and cheer in all the other people who were making it back, but eventually the tiredness won, and we headed for home.....

I had a shower, a lovely meal cooked by my Mum, and an enormous slice of chocolate cheesecake. Plus that celebratory glass of wine that I'd been going on about for ages, but I only managed two sips before I started to fall asleep in it.

Clearly I'm too old now to pull two all-nighters in a row.

Bed by 8.30 pm, and slept for 11 hours solid. 

When I woke up the next morning I was feeling much less emotional about everything, a bit sore, and a bit confused that it was all over.

For almost the whole day, I swore that I would never do another.

Almost.....

The Dorset 100...part 6 (we're getting there now, I promise)....Sunday morning

Leg 9: Beaminster to Blackdown, 6.6 miles, 1315 feet up, 959 feet down

Brilliant, only 10 km until another stop. And it's not even pitch black outside anymore, I can see shapes and things again in the dawn light.

I had been anxious about the next section, as my parents had recced this bit, around Lewesden Hill, and had made a great deal of the fact that it was very difficult to find the way, and that it would be a terrible and frightening place for me to be alone in the dark. I had therefore been studying this part of the map furiously, enthusiastically using my purple high-lighter, and reading and re-reading Section 9 of the Instructions. As it turned out, I don't know what all the fuss was about. Other than the hill was very big (at 279 metres it's the highest point in Dorset), and the zig-zag path up it seemed to have been drawn by someone who had been drunk at the time, I found it OK to find the way (by taking my compass bearings, did I mention I could do that?). There was a manned clip point at the top, where the two gentleman had been sat in their tent all night, clipping peoples cards. What a job. Thanks guys!

We came down off Lewesden Hill, and soon it was back onto roads for a couple of miles....a hugely long couple of miles on a never-ending road, until we eventually made it to the next checkpoint at Blackdown. Here I ate some cocktail sausages and raw carrots, and had some drink. My Dad ate one of his sandwiches (in true honest form, he refused even a crumb or drop of food or fluid from the organisers despite being offered!), and soon we were on our way.....

Leg 10: Blackdown to Netherbury, 7.5 miles, 795 feet up, 1235 feet down

The next part went up a hill and back along a bank above the road we had just run along. It was now really pretty much light, and it was lovely to watch the sky change colours, and see a new day emerge from the darkness. It was lovely and cool in the early morning air. I breathed in deeply, and basked in the satisfaction of running 65 miles. I had now gone further on foot than I ever had before, and felt for the first time quite pleased with myself. Not bad. Not bad at all. I breathed in the dawn air deeply, and felt at one with the world and myself. 

Little did I know it, but that was the last time I was going to feel that for a while.

Yes. Be afraid, be very afraid.

Anyway, oblivious to the challenges ahead, we trotted off into the misty morning, and soon we reached the top of Pilsden Pen, which is the second highest point in Dorset, and has an Iron Age fort on the top. Soon after coming down from the fort, the route took us through someone's garden (I assume they were OK with this), and boom, we ran right into a unicorn:

I knew unicorns were real. We carried on for a bit, and soon after while running along a road we caught up with a lady and a man who were walking quickly, who I remembered from the last checkpoint. I called hello and they returned the greeting. After a couple of seconds the lady called out, 

'Ah, is that right that it's you that's not registered on the event?' to my Dad.

I explained the situation. 

'Ahhh' the lady said in what was an unmistakably patronising tone, 'so he's helping you navigate is he.'

'Nope' I replied 'I'm doing the navigating myself. This is my Dad, and he offered to keep me company through the dark section, which I was grateful for.'

'Ahh,' again, that patronising tone, 'so is he carrying some of your stuff for you as well?'

Can I swear at this point? No? Capitals? No? OK. Fine. The edited version of what I would have preferred to say is:

"Oh gosh! Hahaha! Ha! No madam! No, not at all! I am so sorry that you jumped to that conclusion! I am carrying all of my own things. LIKE THE RULES STATE. I spent several days preparing my kit, so that I would be able to be safe by myself, and be able to carry all that I need. I am not a child. Please do not speak to me like I am one. My Dad is carrying a bag, because HE ALSO NEEDS STUFF to be safe and to hold his own food and water, which again, HE IS CARRYING HIMSELF, BECAUSE HE ALSO TAKES THE RULES SERIOUSLY, AND KNOWS HE CAN'T HAVE ANY OF THE CHECKPOINT SUPPLIES BECAUSE HE'S NOT REGISTERED."

Oh gosh! I seem to have left the caps lock on. No matter. You get the picture.

I am aware that I am an overly sensitive person, I fully accept it as one of my character weaknesses. In general life, I have got much better at managing this, and not bothering an awful lot any more about what people who I don't particularly care for think of me. My carefully worked out strategies for this clearly don't still work after 68 miles on my feet, and I was simultaneously trying not to cry, and not to have a complete sweary-melt-down at the same time. Fortunately, my hair, face and general demeanour were such a state by this point anyway, that no one would have noticed if I had had full on hysterics, so I got away with it. I actually run quite well when angry, so we picked up the pace a bit. Things were going OK, and we were almost at the next checkpoint, when we ran through a dairy farm and up a track, and a flood appeared across the whole path. Typically, at exactly this point, after there being no-one else around for ages, there were about 10 people walking/ running, and I got pushed to one side, and put my foot down the deepest part of the flood, and went in up to my mid-calfs. I felt the cold, cow-poo-y water seep into my trainers and into my blisters.

I was pretty much at the end of my tether now, and was only still attached to it by a tiny tiny thread, invisible to the naked eye. 

Finally, we reached Netherbury. As we went in to the checkpoint, I handed over my card to a tall and ferocious looking man with a red face, whilst my Dad stepped to the side and said he was supporting so didn't have a card to stamp. The effect this had on the gentleman was what happens if you take one of those squeezy tomato ketchup bottles, and with the top still sealed, you squeeze it hard, and the top of the bottle goes all red and bulgy, and looks like it's about to blow its' top (really, don't blame me if you do this, and then wish you hadn't). "You can't walk if not registered! It is not in the spirit of the event!' he shouted! Let's add some more exclamation MARKS FOR MORE EFFECT!!!!! AND SOME CAPITALS LETTERS TOO! BECAUSE HE IS REALLY REALLY ANGRY!!!!

"Yes I can" replied my Dad calmly. 

"NO YOU CAN'T IT IS NOT IN THE SPIRIT OF THE EVENT THE RULES SAY YOU CAN'T" shouted red man. By now there was a queue of people behind me, with cow-poo water filled shoes, who were getting irate (including the woman who thinks I can't map read or carry a bag). 

"No they don't" said my Dad, in what, looking back ,was a comically quiet voice compared to red man's bellow. 

"YES THEY DO!!!!!!!" - red man.

"Can someone PLEASE stamp my card" - lady who thinks I can't map read/ carry a bag/ and now destroys the spirit of events. 

Red man stamped my card, which looking back was a strange thing to do on his part. He could just not have stamped it. But then, I suppose he must have realised that he was spouting out a whole lot of old cod's-wallop and if I had taken him to the LDWA court over his decision, he would have lost, and had to pay me a large amount of compensation. 

My tether was now dangling somewhere several feet above my head. If I could have reached it, I would have flicked it in angry man's eye. 

I went to the toilet and locked myself in for a bit, so that no one else would see my now inevitable melt-down. The lady who thinks I can't map read/ carry a bag/ but destroys the spirit of events, came into the loos. Seriously. Am I being followed? And considering I can't read a map? I mean.

I came out to see my Dad sat down eating his sandwiches (HIS OWN), and being attended to by several ladies (typical) all whom were trying to make him have a cup of tea, having just seen the kerfuffle in the doorway. My Dad, ever the gallant gentleman, still refused. My Dad is amazing. Stubborn, but amazing. And that made me want to cry even more. I was refusing to have any food from the checkpoint, then realising that this could also be seen as being stubborn, I accepted some mandarins and rice pudding from one of the lovely ladies, and pretty much inhaled it, and I am convinced still that that bowl of pudding saved my life. The lovely ladies appeared relieved that I had taken on board some more energy, and I slowly started to come down from the roof. Really, what was I thinking. How many people had I seen over the last 24 hours, giving their time up to help support us at the checkpoints? Tonnes. And how many of them had been nasty? One. Was it fair to let that one man spoil everything, when every single other person was so lovely? No, no it wasn't fair, and it wasn't fair that I was still upset by it, when I was trying not to be. So then I got upset again, and continued in this cycle for the final 30 miles....Wow! 72 miles can really mess you up emotionally.

My Dad was leaving at this point, to get picked up by my Mum, as it was by now daylight. Going back for a well deserved cup of his own home made tea ;-) 

I set back off up the road, having called a cheery thank you to shouty man, which made him even redder. 

Leg 11: Netherbury to Powerstock, 4.6 miles, 762 feet up, 710 feet down

I thought about what he had said about 'the spirit of the event'. After my initial thoughts of gin (gosh a gin and tonic would be lovely right now, oh no wait, it's only 10 past 8 in the morning), I focussed on what the spirit of the event might be. I got quite upset for a few more miles (I am not looking for sympathy here, this is just the reality that running for almost 24 hours and not having any sleep can have on your perception of things), and I actually considered dropping out at the next checkpoint, as if, I reasoned, the spirit of the event didn't include 1) following the rules, 2) keeping yourself safe, 3) supporting each other as human beings, 4) spending time doing something you love with people you love, and 5) doing an activity that keeps you well and healthy, then I did not want to be part of such an event. Thanks, but no thanks. I was off.

Then I got to the next checkpoint, which was manned by the Wales group, and everyone was so nice and cheery that I instantly changed my mind, and realised that I had been being silly. And while we're on the subject, I would like to take this chance to say thank you to all of the people who volunteered their time and made the checkpoints such little hubs of cheer and kindness, filled with smiles and encouragement, offering words of wisdom, an extra slice of cake to take on the way, a reassuring hand on a shoulder, and a final smile to send us on our way. That is the true spirit of the event, and I won't forget that - thank you all! You make my heart feel all warm inside when I think back to being inside the checkpoints. 

Leg 12: Powerstock to Loders, 6.4 miles, 979 feet up, 1027 feet down

This was one of the most challenging sections for me. Actually, more accurately, it was the first part that I found extremely challenging, and then the rest of the sections until the end were basically just as bad.

If anyone ever tells you that you are to walk up Eggardon Hill, prepare yourself for an ordeal. It's another hill fort (there's flippin loads around here, and I swear we have climbed up to ALL of them). It goes on, and on, and on, and on........I can only assume that the people who measured the hills in Dorset and said that Lewesden Hill was the highest, must have just forgotten to do Eggardon Hill. It's much, much, higher. At the top, there as a man sat in a deck chair, who jumped up and pointed me in the right direction over the crest of the hill. I was so tired, I didn't even think that was odd. I think he was an official person. Anyway, his pointing was good. I came down off Eggardon Hill, and glared back at it resentfully. Presently, I came upon the excitingly named Spyway, but nothing much seemed to be happening. Then I just sort of kept going really. It had got to that part of the run where time (or, more realistically, me) had slowed down, and each line of the instructions took about an hour to complete. Eventually, some time later, I came up to Loders, the next checkpoint, which was again a treat to behold. I think I had some more rice pudding, and there were loads of volunteers looking after me and who made me feel better, and a nice man gave me a good pep talk and some good advice. he said, "you've under 20 to go now. It will take a long time, and it will be a hard 20, but keep at it, you can do 20"....and with that, they sent me on my way.....

Leg 13: Loders to Long Bredy, 7.8 miles, 1342 feet up, 1272 feet down

7.8 miles. Holy cow that's a long way. Never mind 20. Stop it, stop it, stop it. On line at a time. That's all there is to do.

Soon it was time for another hill. This one was called Shipton Hill. I didn't care, all I saw was the word hill. This one was smaller, and very pretty, despite being a hill, covered in gorse and flowers and woods. A man who was running near me pointed out a good route up the hill. I thought he sounded like he knew his stuff, and I found out that he had been part of the group who planned the route for the event - it took 7 years! 

I zoned out for quite a lot of the next part, reading instructions, finding my way, reading instructions, finding my way, taking a compass bearing (did I mention, I've learnt how to use a compass?). Time seemed to have slowed down again. It was another scorching day. 

I knew that once I got to the next checkpoint at Long Bredy that I was going to be OK. Only two more sections after that. The first one I knew as I'd recced it, and the second one was the last one, and I was going to finish that if it killed me. As I ran over some gently undulating fields in the baking sun, a man skipped up beside me, with all the bounce and agility of a gazelle. In comparison to his gazelle, I was a heffalump with two broken legs. He had started 2 hours after me, and at the moment all I wanted was to be like him. still do to be honest. He was a lovely person too, cheerful and encouraging, and he really motivated me to want to be better. As he sprang off into the distance over a stile, I saw Long Bredy come into view, and lots of tiny colourful dots which must be people at the checkpoint. I wondered if Andrew or my Mum or Dad might be there. 

As I ran down the road to Long Bredy, a fluorescent man ran up the road in the opposite direction, and I saw it was Andrew! I immediately felt better. He ran down the road with me to the checkpoint, where my parents were also, and had made friends with all the volunteers. Two ladies who I had seen at a few other checkpoints were also there, and they were just so nice, they kept telling me how fab I looked, which was so nice considering I hadn't slept or washed in over 24 hours, and still had cow-poo shoes. The volunteers were so welcoming too, and being from North Yorks were busy drumming up business for next year's 100....  I felt really boosted from that checkpoint, I can tell you! I remember that everyone kept telling me to sit down for a bit, but I just wanted to get on with it. I knew what was coming next....and I wanted it to be over....

The Dorset 100...part 5...still the night

Leg 8 (this is turning into a spider): Evershot -- Beaminster, 8.1 miles, 966 feet up, 1279 feet down

Ahhhh, half way. I always like this point. However far there is to go (and there is indeed some considerable way to go, but we'll gloss over that point) there isn't as far as we've already come.

We came to Evershot a couple of days go, for a pub trip involving ice cream, mid-way around the recce day. While I was there, I went for a walk up the high street of this sleepy little village (the wrong way, as it happened) looking for the Village Hall so I knew where the checkpoint was, I had got chatting to an elderly lady coming out of her house. I ran past it now, all quiet and the curtains tucked in neatly. It looked all quiet and cosy, I thought, as we headed back out into the darkness. It was now about 12.45 am, and although the drinks were still flowing freely, thanks to my refill of blackcurrant squash, it was getting to the point in the evening where my feet were getting fed up of my shoes, and I was feeling that the option of a warm bed was more vastly more appealing than pushing on through the night. Still, I had no choice, the poor lady hadn't even invited me to stay, so I must crack on. The next few miles were quite straightforward anyway, mostly along roads, so I got back into things quite quickly. 

As we were running out of Corscombe, which even in the dark had a distinct air of well-to-do about it, we caught up with a gentleman running along. He was looking strong, but a few words uttered soon imparted that he was not feeling the same as he looked. 'Well' I ventured, in what I hoped was an encouraging but not irritating tone (things can easily be misinterpreted after 55 miles), 'we're almost at the breakfast stop now, so we will be able to eat something and set ourselves up again.' 

'No' the gentleman growled, 'the trouble with the breakfast stop, is that you can never stomach it'. I wobbled mid-stride. Crickey, he seems in a bad mood. I totally understand why, obviously. I was torn. I wanted to help him feel a bit more positive, as so many people have helped me to do over the years, but he clearly was sounding like he wanted to be on his own, and I can understand that too. Nothing worse than someone wittering on at you about how it will all be OK really, when all you really want is a bit of time to yourself to be really really miserable how things are TOTALLY not going to be OK at all. And then something happens, and you snap out of it, and things are well again. So I left him to it.

Anyway, I've been dreaming after a bacon butty for a good 5 miles now, and we need to crack on up this blasted hill to get closer to the breakfast stop. We made it over another EXTREME CARE road, and into a field with waist high wet grass. I took a compass bearing (I just feel the need to drop this in every so often, now I know how to actually use a compass), and made it to a self-clip in a hedge. Then it was only a couple more miles down to Beaminster, and......long long-anticipated BREAKFAST STOP!!! 

As we were approaching, I had a little panic that there might not actually be any bacon, but this was soon pushed to the back of my mind, as before breakfast we went into the Baggage Pavilion. This is were the bags we had left at the start had been transported to. It took me 25 MINUTES, yes, TWENTY FIVE, to get my bag, take off my trainers, change clothes, and address the problem of my feet. I've always been !*@? at transitions in triathlons, but this was a whole another level of slowness. In order to explain myself, we need to go back to my feet, which by now were becoming quite a problem. Or, two problems. My feet had got really wet over the last few hours. The blisters which I had burst about, I don't know, 25 miles or so ago, were now really sore again, and there were now blisters on blisters on the inside of both of my heels. I also had new blisters at the front of my feet and between my toes. It was awful. I cleaned them as best I could (sure am glad the essential kit list included antiseptic wipes, the people who wrote that list clearly know what they are talking about), tried to dry them as much as I could, put blister plasters on the blisters, and used a LOT of baby powder to dry them properly. My feet had gone white and wrinkly, and I am now going to plagiarize the saying of another runner, and say that my feet looked like tripe. As I was thinking this, I realised that I've never had tripe, and don't know much about it, and being a dietitian this is unacceptable, so afterwards I went to find out. I already knew that tripe was the lining of the stomach of cows. But then, cows have four stomachs don't they, and bet you didn't know that tripe is usually only the wall of the first three stomachs. And, if you ate 100 g of raw tripe (yummy - not that I recommend this) it would give you 85 kcal, and 12 g of protein. Twelve grams! 

Nah. I'm still not convinced to try it. Especially now I think it looks like my feet.

I gingerly put new socks and trainers over my tripe-feet, and hobbled out to Andrew who was waiting (for ages) in the hall. Sorry.

We ran across the playing fields to the Breakfast Stop which was in the school dining room, and met my Dad. Andrew headed back to the house for some much deserved rest - thanks a million - it was so good to have company, and jokes (especially the bad ones), and someone familiar being around for a few hours to encourage and make me feel I was doing OK! I owe you one!

North Yorkshire were doing the breakfast stop and it was ace, I had a bacon butty (hurrah) with ketchup, and a cup of tea and everything. It was delicious. All too soon, the bacon butty was over, and it was off again, this time with my Dad who had kindly offered to keep me company for the rest of the time until it got light....

The Dorset 100......part 4....Saturday night....

Leg 6: Buckland Newton - Wardon Hill, 7.5 miles, 1328 feet up, 952 feet down
Got my Saturday night outfit on. Lined my stomach with pizza. Got blisters on my feet. Had a few drinks top ups. And the drinks are free. 

I haven't pulled an all-nighter in a long time, but it sure is good to be back. 

Of all the parts of the hundred, other than the hundred bit, the night part was the part I was most anxious about. See previous post for some of my top fears, and you will see that darkness is among them. It's daft. But I can run totally my myself in the middle of nowhere in the day time and it doesn't bother me a jot, but as soon as it's dark....well. 

So I was so grateful when both Andrew and my Dad offered to keep me company during the dark hours.

As it turned out, it was the part of the hundred I loved the best! Perhaps because by the time it got dark I'd done 40 miles, and I started to care a lot less about what gouls might be lurking in the shadows. And perhaps because I'd done 40 miles without getting lost and had started to think that I might be alright at this. And perhaps because having spent the day roasting like....it was nice to be cool.

And, even more than all of that, I just quite enjoyed it being dark. In the halo of my head-torch (which was actually my Dad's head-torch, and really more like a floodlight than a torch) I tootled along my own little orb, feeling like nothing outside of it could touch me. It was very peaceful, and even though I couldn't see much, I felt like I noticed more than usual, like smells were stronger, the feeling of the air on my skin and in my lungs, quiet noises coming from just outside my little spot-light. For most of the night, I could see a couple of other little lights bobbing along like glow-worms in front or behind. 

The first part after Andrew joined me I hadn't done before, and to be honest it did take a couple of miles to settle down into navigating in the dark. It's obvious to know that you're not going to have a lot of the reference points that you would have in the day time, like looking at hills, forests, farms etc in the distance to confirm your position on a map. But other things too, like you can't see much outside of your torch-light, so spotting paths, signs, and stiles etc is harder. And you have to concentrate more on where you put your feet; shadows look like holes, when there's nothing there, or you think there's nothing there and your foot disappears into the abyss. And focussing your light alternately between your instructions/ your feet/ your instructions/ your feet/ looking for a stile/ Andrew/ feet/ instructions.... is really quite an art, which I had no idea before the event that I needed to be able to do. Still, you learn fast when you have to.

After a few miles, we got to Up Cerne, and the next few miles we had recced a couple of days before, so that was a nice bit of a time to relax a little as I felt really confident I knew the way. I'm glad I did this bit in the light as well though, as it is a really pretty part, along a tree lined drive, up a big hill with some good views, and down to Up Sydling which is an idyllic hamlet with a babbling brook. Then it was up past the impressive Upper Sydling Farm and up a long hill surrounded by Fisher's Bottom on one side, and by Ayles's Hill Bottom on the other. Bottom jokes are very funny after 10 hours of running. Wardon Hill went on and on for eternity in the darkness, until eventually we reached the top, and then soon after to the checkpoint at Wardon Hill Barn, and 46.4 miles done. Coming from the darkness into a brightly lit barn in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night was quite a shock to the senses. People were scattered around the ban propped up on bales of straw, in varying degrees of physical disrepair. Several tables were loaded with a delicious assortment of food. I had a few little bits of sweet things, squirrelled away a packet of ready salted crisps (earlier in the day I had started to become concerned about the maximum amount of crisp consumption that was acceptable in one day, but I figured that by now it was probably pretty much midnight, and therefore the crisp tally could be re-wound to 0 for the ext day), found Andrew again, and headed out into the night.

Gosh. It's dark out here. 

Oh yeah. Better switch my head-torch back on. 

Leg 7: Wardon Hill - Evershot, 3.1 miles, 297 feet up, 581 feet down
Don't remember a whole awful lot about the next part, other than we crossed an EXTREME CARE road, got overtaken by a man who was running at 7 million miles an hour, ran through a village called Frome St Quintin, ran over a railway, and ended up in Evershot, which was where we were meant to be, so that was good. 

Had some tomato soup, which was like rocket fuel for the soul. Amazing. Soup is quite amazing.

49.5 miles......half way!

The Dorset 100....part 3....Saturday evening....

Leg 5: Antsy to Buckland Newton, 6.2 miles, 1072 feet up, 1050 feet down

OK. 32.6 miles done. And the next bit is only 10 km. This is fine. I can do that far. OK. I can. I totally can. It's going to be fine.

And anyway, the next part looks to be quite exciting, with the Dorsetshire Gap coming up, whatever that was, but it had lots of signposts so must be important. It turned out to be a muddy crossroads in a dip, which looked a bit murky in the approaching gloom of dusk, plus it had a big bin right by it. Which turned out to be a box for a visitors book. But what would you write? I wondered, as I plodded on, up one of the tracks. Unable to accept that a visitors book would be there purely to record people's experience of walking along a muddy track, I investigated further, and have discovered that the Dorsetshire Gap is an important, historic track junction, where five ancient racks meet, and was the hub of Central Dorset from the Middle Ages until the 19th Century. People have been walking though here since the Middle Ages! The people who must have been here! No wonder it has a visitors book!  I wonder how long it's been here for? I wish I'd read it.

Keeping up the tradition of traveling along these tracks, I continue on my way. I use my compass a lot, not because I particularly need to, but more because there's no one much else about, and I need something to think about other than the fact it's about to get dark. I soon catch up with a cheerful gentleman, who is carefully picking his way down some steep steps through a wood. I say steps. I assume that at some point there would have been steps, but presently it was pretty much a vertical mud slide with a wooden handrail on one side, which was also covered in mud, presumably from muddy casualties, grabbing on for dear life. We make our way down, slipping and sliding, and I pray that I'm not going to stack it, and slide into the gentleman, and scupper both our chances of finishing, 

We somehow make it down without a dramatic injury, and emerge into a misty field which is getting dusky, and the grass is really wet and soaks my feet (not that it matters what happens to my feet now, they are ruined). I jog up a lane, and am surprised to see a black panther sat at the side of the road some way ahead. How exciting. As a get closer, I wonder why it's not running off. Maybe it's a friendly panther. He's probably just sat watching all these people run past. As I do just that, I stop to look at him, and realise he is just a couple of branches balanced together. Ee by gum. I need to get a grip. It's not even night yet, and I'm already imagining things. It will be a downward spiral now. I've heard of all these hallucination things that people get on long events, but I thought you didn't get them till the second night when you were so sleep deprived and exhausted that you see all sorts of exciting stuff that you wouldn't normally. It's supposed to be your minds way of protecting you from the pain of the experience. Maybe mine's kicked in early. Fine with me.

I climbed up the hill and into the gathering dusk. The weather, which had been scorching all day, seemed to sense the change in mood, and thunder started to rumble around in the background. Great, fantastic, brilliant. I completely love thunder. I'm not scared of it at all. This is all totally fine and I'm in control of the situation. Breath. It's also fine that I'm running under some trees. This isn't dangerous at all. And just as the thunder gets louder, I run into a field of cows, who apparently are even less keen on the rumble-y stuff than I am, and who are freaking out in a moo-ing kind of way. Fantastic, cows AND thunder, AND it's getting dark. All of my favourite things all at once. All we need now is a giant spider to fall out of the sky, and my nightmare will be complete.    

Lomax. Get it together. It is some cows, some weather, and a part of the day that happens every 24 hours. And  there is no giant spider. Don't be so ridiculous.  All you need to do is get to the top of this hill, and from then it's downhill to the next checkpoint, where there's likely to be some crisps, and then everything will be fine. 

Crisps. OK. Focus. Get to the top of the hill....

Where there is a big metal gate, secured by a farmer who was clearly convinced his cows were aspiring Houdinis. It takes a good couple of minutes to undo the metal chain tied around it. Once through the other side, I notice that a herd of bullocks have been enticed by my crashing and banging around the gate, and clearly think that something is about to happen for them, and have come up to have a look. Then I have to fiddle with the chain for another millennia to get it to shut, so the teenage-boy-cows can't make a run for it, and by the time I turn around, the gang have surrounded me. Literally. I sweared a lot at this point, but will spare you that now. I told you I wasn't being ridiculous; cows are a complete nightmare. I gather all of my strength, which is by now somewhat diminished, and stand up straight. I have run 35 miles to get here, I will not be intimidated by tomorrow's burger (apologies to all veggies - I didn't actually mean this, I don't even like burgers - this was purely fighting talk in an attempt to convince myself of my dominance). I marched through, talking loudly about seeded buns and ketchup, and  waving my arms. They let me though, but followed me; stomp, stomp, stomp, I could feel them hot on my heels. A rouge bullock, who was evidently late to the party because he had been drinking Bison Grass vodka behind the bushes, sauntered up from ahead and blocked me off from the next gate.He lowered his head and stamped his feet. Holy, holy cow. I pretended to ignore the beast, and continued around him on my march towards the gate. By now I could feel their hot breath on the back of my neck, and I was rapidly loosing my composure. Thank goodness it was getting dark and no-one else could see me. I grabbed hold of the gate, and with all my strength jumped over it (in a feat I haven't managed since I was 8, when I ended up falling into a field of stinging nettles on the other side). I turn back and stare at the bullocks, to show them who's boss, and then quickly run off.

Hurrah! I make it to the next checkpoint at Buckland Newton and I'm still in one piece! And my Mum and Andrew are here! And they have brought pizza! Have a quick outfit change (into my Saturday night outfit), don my head-torch, grab a banana and set off into the dark with Andrew, who has come for moral support in the darkness. The nightmare has ended.

The Dorset 100....part 2

Where were we? Oh yes, running 100 miles...

Leg 3: Briantspuddle to Dewlish, 5.6 miles, 551 feet up, 391 feet down

Fortified by the squash extravaganza and a packet of crisps, we set off again, this time headed in the direction of the sweetly named Affpuddle. Dorset is full of just delightful place names. My favourite is Shitterton, simply because of it's brutal honesty; if your village is a "farmstead on the stream used as an open sewer" then don't pretend it's anything else by giving it a charming little name, tell it like it is. After Shitterton, my favourite are the 'Puddles' or 'Piddles'. These are villages on the River Piddle. The River Piddle. Now that's a name. Further research has uncovered that, unlike Shitterton, Piddle isn't related to sewers. It means 'ditch or marsh'. So the River Piddle is the Ditch/Marsh River. Which doesn't sound nearly quite as good as Piddle ...... or, Piddlehinton, Piddletrenthide, Tolpuddle, Puddletown, Affpuddle.....

We piddled on down to Tolpuddle, where (shock) I found my parents sat outside the pub. Although I can't be too rude, because my Mum had saved me the biscuit from her coffee. Tolpuddle is home to the Tolpuddle Martyrs - six laborers who were arrested for forming a union, trialled, and deported to Australia (no piddles there), and here is the basis for the modern trade unions. To make this post less of a piddle, and more educational, there's some more info about them here: Tolpuddle Martyrs

Leaving the pub, I continued on (under the A34 - a sure highlight) and on to Dewlish. I came here a couple of days before to recce a bit that I couldn't for the life of me figure out on the map, and ran into some of the marshals who were sorting out some last minute things. I was very excited to see them again on the day! Dewlish is a tiny idyllic village (incidentally, while we're on the subject of place names, it means devilish, and the stream running through it is called Devil's Brook. It has a devil of a hill as well, come to think of it). The checkpoint was rammed with people, and it was not unlike stepping into a huge party of the best kind. Drinks were on tap (or, on bucket; more gallons of squash were sloshing around), and a long trestle table down the middle of the hall groaning under the weight of dozens of plates of gustatory delights. I swooped on a plate of cheese scones. While I was delicately eating/ inhaling one, a gentleman pounced on me. Not in a weird way, just that he had the cat like bounce and enthusiastically glinting eyes that all experienced long-distance-type people seem to have. Our exchange:

'Love the outfit' he said. 

'Thank you' I said.

'Very co-ordinated' he said.

'Thank you, totally unintentionally' I lied.  

'Do you mind if I make a short video?' he said.

What? I take it back, this is now definitely weird.

'I'm just collecting stories from people, as I go around, putting together a film of the event' he elaborated. Ah there we go, see, all makes sense, totally normal. And so he asked me a few questions and I tried to answer while not looking like an idiot in a pink outfit. He's called John Penfold, and he's made a brilliant whole hour long film (excluding the bit if me) of the event: John Pennifold's LDWA Dorset 100

Leg 4: Dewlish to Antsy, 10.2 miles, 1471 feet up, 1346 feet down
After my little brush with fame, I set off again. I've recced the next part, so I definitely won't get lost. Even though we are on the way to Gallow's Corner, which sounds a bit ominous to be honest. I also remember from the recce that about 1 mile is basically through nettles and wild garlic, so as well as getting stung, it smells a lot. I made it through though, coming out the other side looking at bit unhinged and scratching at my legs, smelling like a giant garlic bread. Still, a little boy and his Mum had come out of their house on the lane and set up their own little support stand handing out biscuits and ringing cow bells and cheering, so that made the whole nettle/garlic episode totally worth it. 

Next, well it was probably a few miles later, but I've forgotten a lot of them now, it was on to Milton Abbas, which is even prettier than the other pretty unbelievably pretty places I've seen today. It's a small village (near to the 10th century Milton Abby), of a single street of white painted thatched houses stretching up a hill, with manicured lawns and flowers, and an imposing church at the top. A man was sitting on a bench outside the church, hands pointed together and head bowed deep in prayer, the picture of peaceful contemplation. As I got close, I noticed he was looking at his tablet (his computer tablet, not a pill) . Anyway, this seemed much funnier at the time than it does now, which I put down to having run a marathon by this point, while at the same time realizing I still had 3 more marathons to run before finishing. I think it sent me delirious. 

So, I dived into the checkpoint in the village hall, got my card stamped, grabbed a handful of jelly sweets, and set off to tackle the next 3 marathons.....

So, a little more about Milton Abbas before we leave. Rewind to 1773, and the town that had built up around Milton Abbey was called Middleton. Lord Milton, the 1st Earl of Dorchester had a grand house nearby, however, and was uncomfortable with his less posh neighbors in the village being so close to his house. So he moved the village to the next valley. Yes indeed, you read that right. He moved the whole village, and everyone in it, to another valley, where he couldn't see them. And it got renamed Milton Abbas. 

I departed Milton Abbas, having found a new favourite place, no matter what the 1st Earl of Dorchester might think, and ran past the Abbey which is a building of enormous expanses of pale grey stone, gracefully placed in open rolling grounds. The rolling soon turned into an uphill rolling, and soon we were climbing a steep muddy path through a forest. I caught up with a gentleman walking by himself, and we had a bit of a chat, mostly about the mud, and the lack of other people we had seen for while, and I was much boosted to see a friendly face. His parting shot was, "see you in A&E! Or the mortuary! Whichever comes first!".

Encouraged by this challenge, I made it to the next checkpoint, at Antsy, where the kit check was happening. I've never had a random kit check on a race before, and was intrigued to find that it involved pulling a ping-pong ball out of a bag, and looking at what the ping-pong ball has written on it, and showing the marshals this bit of your kit, then you get your card clipped. I had to show them my reflective strips, which, predictably, although being the thing at the top of my bag when I packed it, were the thing I found last. I've been anxious about that for days. Now it's over. Phew.

I spend 5 minutes in the loos, performing emergency surgery on two enormous blisters, one on the side of each heel. I have NEVER had blisters here before in the whole of my history. I swear a lot (very very quietly) as I clean them and burst them, and dress them, all while stood on one leg. Then I realise I have left my map in the kit check area, which is a bit ironic. 

I eat a couple of marmite sandwiches, and receive a lot of anxious comments from the marshals as I won't sit down, because I am worried my legs will fuse into a sitting position. I take a piece of fruit loaf for good luck, and head out. "Have a good night!" the marshals call, as I thank them on the way out. 

Saturday night in Dorset.  Ready for an all-nighter. 

The Dorset 100.....the first part

Gosh, it's amazing how much energy running 100 (and one) miles takes out of you. It's been a week and two days now, and I've just about regained the strength to type. That being the case, I will now attempt to relive the whole experience, and commit it to memory so I don't get any ridiculous ideas of doing anything similar again (Ha! Too late for that!)......

The Dorset 100.....in bits (as I haven't quite enough energy to do it all at once)

Leg 1: Wey Valley School to Crossways, distance 9.8 miles, 1044 ft of up, 938 ft of down

Woke up feeling terrified of the day/ night/ day ahead. The butterflies in my stomach are flapping about so hard I feel quite queasy. Even a delicious bacon and egg butty and a cup of coffee, a tried and tested way of solving most of my past problems, doesn't sort it out. In the car to the start, in all of 10 minutes, I feel totally sick. How am I going to run in this state?? Have a little internal panic attack at the thought. My Dad drops off Andrew and I, and I check in. Number 306. Am there 50 minutes early, which is far too much spare time when you are waiting to do something you're not sure you can do. Try to drink another cup of coffee (part of my current anxiety is based around how on this good earth am I going to stay awake until tomorrow evening), and relax, but this is hindered somewhat by the large number of intimidatingly fast and indestructible looking people lounging around, and giving off the air that this is something they do every day.

Argh.

Eventually, just before 12 pm, everyone rushes from the hall to gather on the grass outside at The Start. After a short speech by the organizers, and some well meant jokes about how bonkers this is, which do nothing for my nerves, everyone gets on their way. Too late to back out now I suppose, so here goes....

I start at the back and try to get into my rhythm without being distracted by everyone all around me. The first few miles are up hill next to a big road, but soon head off into the country and through some fields. Phew, it's hot already. Get chatting to a guy called Dave who is also on his first 100. Nice to be with someone who is also in the same boat, and is totally relaxed about everything, and we spend the first third or so of the race leap-frogging each other and having a chat on the way past. 

After a few miles, we run through a watercress farm. I love watercress, so this is quite a revelation to me, as I've never seen it other than in a plastic bag in shops before. Gosh, there's a lot of it. Imagine how much iron there is in that lot. Mmmmm....watercress..... Focus! Almost missed the turn by 'dilapidated building on LHS TL up TK (CB310)'. Sigh. The next couple of miles are through an 'aggregate industries' area, which is full of helpful signs, like "beware - danger of death", "beware of the quicksands", "do not swim - cold deep water". Crikey. Better pay attention. Thankfully, I make it through the danger, and arrive at checkpoint number 1, at a place called Crossways, where I get my first clip on my checking-in card, re-hydrate with purple squash, have a piece of flapjack and some jelly sweets, say hi to Dave, and congratulate myself on being so good as to reach the 10 mile point in 2 hours. Brilliant, I'll be done by breakfast time at this rate.

Leg 2: Crossways to Briantspuddle, distance 6.9 miles, 477 ft of up, 541 ft of down
The next part is all along some nice fields with some views of some rather fancy country piles. Oooh to be floating around in a cool swimming pool with a glass of fizzy plonk and some strawberries.....blimey, it's only 10 miles in, how am I thinking of a refreshing alcoholic beverage already? Have a consolatory sip on my water from my camel-back, which after two hours of running around in the sun is by now almost hot enough to brew tea with, and berate myself for lack of focus. Then all of a sudden we come into a path through some pine woods and purple rhododendrons crowd the path from either side, and I breath in the pine scent and at once feel at one with the earth again. 

Soon we reach a cemetery where Lawrence of Arabia is buried. My parents are there, great to see them, although almost missed my Mum who was off doing a spot of grave spotting. Which is better than grave digging, I guess. Then we head over a long footbridge across a wide and babbling river, with people paddling in the cool waters.  I am so jealous, it's unreal.

Soon after, we start to catch up with the people who started at 10 am, and it's a big boost to have some friendly chats. A few miles are though some big woods, and up the steepest hill yet. Crikey. At the top, a lady walking her dog shouts out well done wishes, and that her daughter saw me earlier on in the day, and wants me to know that I am 'the most stylish runner' and she likes my pink leggings. Aww, thanks! I don't feel particularly stylish after 3 hours of running in this heat, I have to say, but I feel momentarily like maybe I don't look like a complete buffoon stomping about the countryside in neon clothes. 

We soon arrive at the next place on the map (all going well with the navigation so far....) which is charmingly named Briantspuddle, and is a delightful little thatched village straight off a chocolate box. I approach a white haired gentleman who is briskly walking towards the next checkpoint and casually mention how pretty the village is. "It is" he relied "until one goes up, then the whole row will be in flames." Well, I suppose that's another way to look at it.

I arrive at Checkpoint 2 at the same time as Dave. We go from being in a sleepy little lane to being thrust into a village hall crammed with hundreds of walkers sat around replenishing their fuel reserves with plates piled high with an assortment of sandwiches, crisps, and all manner of baked delights, and copious amounts of tea and coffee. Slightly overwhelmed, I inquire where  I can get some water to top up my water pack, and am directed to a wooden table on which several buckets of different coloured squash are placed. My word! Have never seen so much squash. "We've already used about 20 buckets" pipes up one of the men who is manning the squash station. 20 buckets. Of squash. Already. At least this will all come in handy if the whole village goes up in flames.

Definitely re-hydrated, I pinch a packet of crisps, and head on out for the next leg....

....which is to follow.....