Stage 7: Botton to Glaisdale, 6.8 miles, 1230 ft up, 1420 ft down
I peered out of the checkpoint into the night. It seemed very dark all of a sudden. Still, on the bright side (ha!), you can't see hills in the dark. Or bogs. A lesson I learned a few moments later, as we climbed a hill, which, as well as taking up the full 1230 feet of ascent in one go, also won the prize of boggiest hill on the route. Or maybe even, in the world. The Botton Bog Hill was visibly claiming victims the whole way up it's boggy backbone, as a slow snake of head-torches slithered and careered about dangerously close to the shadowy edge. Andrew had started shaking, and throwing up over the side of the Botton Bog Hill, just to make the evening even more exciting. At one of the highest points on the route, we had reached a low point.
The rest of the section was tortuous. Andrew was throwing up alarming often. It was a bleak time where I wasn't sure what was best to do. I wanted to stop and pitch camp somewhere, and rest for a bit until he felt better, but my head told me that we were at the top of a moor, it was the middle of the night, I didn't have a tent, and if we stopped then things would just get worse. The logical part of my brain, which had been shrunk somewhat over the last 40 miles, advised to keep moving forward to the next checkpoint, where at least it would be warm and bright, there would be food and water, and other people around to help. So on we went, Andrew alternating between throwing up and trotting forwards - a true trooper! Somehow, we made it to the next checkpoint, which was manned by the South Wales group, and we were welcomed into the hall by people dressed as daffodils and miners. No, really, we were. We rested for a while. I still didn't know what to do. The last time this happened on the Sussex Stride 50, Andrew had had to retire at the last checkpoint, so I thought that maybe that would be best for him in order to get better, but I also really wanted him to carry on, because he'd put so much in to training for this. In the end, Andrew decided to stay and rest a while longer and see how he felt and if he could eat something, and we agreed I would set off again, but with the promise that if he still felt ill, then he would retire. I felt awful, we were supposed to do this together, and here I was leaving him. The logical me was starting to get annoyed with the emotional me, and in order to avoid further conflict, I agreed to carrying on, but secretly hoping he'd set off again in a couple of minutes, and catch up.
The rest of the section was tortuous. Andrew was throwing up alarming often. It was a bleak time where I wasn't sure what was best to do. I wanted to stop and pitch camp somewhere, and rest for a bit until he felt better, but my head told me that we were at the top of a moor, it was the middle of the night, I didn't have a tent, and if we stopped then things would just get worse. The logical part of my brain, which had been shrunk somewhat over the last 40 miles, advised to keep moving forward to the next checkpoint, where at least it would be warm and bright, there would be food and water, and other people around to help. So on we went, Andrew alternating between throwing up and trotting forwards - a true trooper! Somehow, we made it to the next checkpoint, which was manned by the South Wales group, and we were welcomed into the hall by people dressed as daffodils and miners. No, really, we were. We rested for a while. I still didn't know what to do. The last time this happened on the Sussex Stride 50, Andrew had had to retire at the last checkpoint, so I thought that maybe that would be best for him in order to get better, but I also really wanted him to carry on, because he'd put so much in to training for this. In the end, Andrew decided to stay and rest a while longer and see how he felt and if he could eat something, and we agreed I would set off again, but with the promise that if he still felt ill, then he would retire. I felt awful, we were supposed to do this together, and here I was leaving him. The logical me was starting to get annoyed with the emotional me, and in order to avoid further conflict, I agreed to carrying on, but secretly hoping he'd set off again in a couple of minutes, and catch up.
Stage 8: Glaisdale to Sleights, 7.7 miles, 750 ft up, 1160 ft down
For the second time that evening, I peered out of a checkpoint into the night. It was now devilishly dark out here. I had a moment perched on the edge of the front step, where my foot was balanced equally between launching off solo into the night, and stepping back into the warm brightly lit checkpoint. More through lack of balance than any particular resolve of will power, I ended up outside, staring around in a confused fashion, the opposite of a moth who finds itself in a room full of light, and doesn't know which way to head first.
Crap. I was going to have to do the night part on my own.
Well, it was already past midnight, so there were only about 4 hours until dawn. 4 hours, that's all. And once through the 4 hours, the finish of The 100 would be within my grasp (sort of, apart from the remaining 40 miles or so).
I berated myself for a few minutes for being a wimp. I am 33 years old. That is too old to be scared of the dark. It is, it is, it is.
It is not.
I realised I was talking to myself already. And I hadn't even left the front of the village hall.
I passed a few people for a while on leaving the checkpoint, who all seemed very friendly. It seemed pretty busy out here, a steady stream of headtorches weaving their way through the night. This was all going to be fine. Just because it was dark, didn't mean it was a problem. I mean, what was there to be scared of? Ghosts? Ha!
Oh. Now I'm in a wood. Where has everyone gone? They aren't here that's for sure. What should I do? I faffed for a few moments, with the hope that someone might catch me up, pretending to consult my route description, even though I knew full well where I was, and where I was supposed to go. I was in a wood, and I had to go further into the wood.
Ghosts!
I heard a whimper, and jumped, before realising it was me.
Poopity poop. The A to Z of alliterative swear words was starting.
I stared fixedly at the centre of the light of my headtorch, refusing to look towards edges of the circle and see the dark shadows that I was convinced were gathering ever closer around me. I made it through 1.5 km (a mile!) of this dreadful journey and emerged finally from the wood onto a road. Where I ploughed forwards a little more confidently, until an owl started hooting and things started fluttering about in the dark. I ground my teeth and stared straight ahead. Which soon turned right, down a track past an old manor house, Edgton Manor, a track surrounded by trees. I could see the silhouette of the manor house. Just like the house where The Woman in Black lived.
Oh, for God's sake. Shut up.
But it is just like the house on the island where The Woman in Black lives, where she swoops around, causing misery, and making people jump.
She doesn't live anywhere. She's a ghost, you fool. She's not real.
I realised I was talking to myself again. Out loud now.
Then I realised it was making me feel better. If the ghosts can hear me talking, they'll assume there's more than one of me, and leave me alone.
I also realised there were several issues with that statement, but it was all becoming just a little bit too much for me to cope with, and so I continued along the rest of stage 8, alternately humming to myself in an increasingly high pitched and tortuous tone, pausing to hopefully look behind me to see if any head-torches might appear, and discussing with myself out loud what I was doing.
After what seemed like an eternity, I heard other voices. I stopped talking to myself and tuned in. All was dark. I was confused. They seemed to be coming from a hedge. I looked at the hedge. The hedge looked back, still talking. That was weird. Even I thought that. I wandered over to the hedge to investigate. There were some tents pitched in the field the other side. Oh.
I continued on, and in a further eternity, I spotted two tiny pinpricks of light up ahead. Fellow participants - triple hurrah! And then there seemed to be more and more head-lights appearing. I had made it through the lonely night in one piece. I finally made it to the checkpoint at Sleights. I managed to eat one square of melon, one fig roll, and one cheese triangle sandwich.
I continued on, and in a further eternity, I spotted two tiny pinpricks of light up ahead. Fellow participants - triple hurrah! And then there seemed to be more and more head-lights appearing. I had made it through the lonely night in one piece. I finally made it to the checkpoint at Sleights. I managed to eat one square of melon, one fig roll, and one cheese triangle sandwich.
Stage 8: Sleights to Hawsker, 4.6 miles, 580 ft up, 340 ft down
It was a bit lighter now, and the next section was quite short. I temporarily felt a bit more energetic after the food, and I was confident I knew the route from the recce. I trundled along for a whole mile, looking at Whitby Abby which had come into view in the (very) distance, just in time for dawn.
It's quite magical to witness the dawn, having been up and moving through the whole night. Some of the shadows that haunt you in the darkness are suddenly erased as the first rays of light touch them. Lost in my thoughts, I shortly became actually lost. The words on the route description just didn't match reality. I wandered up and down three sides of a field looking for the 'soon bear 1/2 right to look for a stile on the left' in the description, but alas without joy. I joined up with a gentleman also on the same quest, and eventually we spotted some others right back at the first side of a field climbing over the fence. Just over the fence, that is, not over a stile. Well, obviously, that's what the route description meant when it said stile. Of course.
A little while later in Sneaton, I happened upon Nigel. Nigel is a a great bloke who I first met a few years back when I was running the Woldsman 50 miles, which I ran most of with his daughter Tanya. Nigel was out of action then, awaiting a knee operation at the time, but was supporting Tanya on her way around, and so I spent quite a bit of time with them both that day. It's always great to see them at different events, and it was brilliant to see Nigel back moving well after his operation. We chatted for a while. Nigel mentioned he was having a rough time, and was just seeing how far round he could get. I mentioned I was also having a bad time, my list of aliments now extending to nausea and stomach aches, headaches, low mood, a frightening number of blisters, and a concerning drop in pace. As always, even when he was feeling rubbish himself, Nigel had only positive things to say, and I owe a lot to him for giving me a boost at a time when I wasn't sure what I was doing, or why I was doing it anymore. I was made up to check the finishers list and see him on it - nice one Nigel!
I popped in to the checkpoint at Hawsker, and ate a mini flapjack and a strawberry. I just wanted to get to the breakfast stop now. 3 more miles to 1) see my Mum, 2) sort out my feet which were now burning like hot chilli powder had been poured into my shoes, 3) try and eat something, and 4) once past breakfast at 62 miles, the finish seems a little closer to reach.
It was a bit lighter now, and the next section was quite short. I temporarily felt a bit more energetic after the food, and I was confident I knew the route from the recce. I trundled along for a whole mile, looking at Whitby Abby which had come into view in the (very) distance, just in time for dawn.
It's quite magical to witness the dawn, having been up and moving through the whole night. Some of the shadows that haunt you in the darkness are suddenly erased as the first rays of light touch them. Lost in my thoughts, I shortly became actually lost. The words on the route description just didn't match reality. I wandered up and down three sides of a field looking for the 'soon bear 1/2 right to look for a stile on the left' in the description, but alas without joy. I joined up with a gentleman also on the same quest, and eventually we spotted some others right back at the first side of a field climbing over the fence. Just over the fence, that is, not over a stile. Well, obviously, that's what the route description meant when it said stile. Of course.
A little while later in Sneaton, I happened upon Nigel. Nigel is a a great bloke who I first met a few years back when I was running the Woldsman 50 miles, which I ran most of with his daughter Tanya. Nigel was out of action then, awaiting a knee operation at the time, but was supporting Tanya on her way around, and so I spent quite a bit of time with them both that day. It's always great to see them at different events, and it was brilliant to see Nigel back moving well after his operation. We chatted for a while. Nigel mentioned he was having a rough time, and was just seeing how far round he could get. I mentioned I was also having a bad time, my list of aliments now extending to nausea and stomach aches, headaches, low mood, a frightening number of blisters, and a concerning drop in pace. As always, even when he was feeling rubbish himself, Nigel had only positive things to say, and I owe a lot to him for giving me a boost at a time when I wasn't sure what I was doing, or why I was doing it anymore. I was made up to check the finishers list and see him on it - nice one Nigel!
I popped in to the checkpoint at Hawsker, and ate a mini flapjack and a strawberry. I just wanted to get to the breakfast stop now. 3 more miles to 1) see my Mum, 2) sort out my feet which were now burning like hot chilli powder had been poured into my shoes, 3) try and eat something, and 4) once past breakfast at 62 miles, the finish seems a little closer to reach.
Stage 9: Hawsker to Fyling Hall, 3.0 miles, 420 ft up, 320 ft down
I hobbled around the next three miles in a little less than an hour. Although I was still ahead of my hoped for time, I knew I was slowing in my legs and mind, and was struggling to keep it together, and spent the hour internally beating myself up over this fact. By the time I got the the breakfast stop I'd had just about enough of everything, especially myself. As soon as I saw my Mum (wearing the Checkpoint Super Hero outfit of apron, ready to cook breakfast for 500 people) I lost it, and dissolved into a blithering useless wreak. A few minutes of Mum Motivation, a change of clothes, some minor foot surgery and new socks and shoes later, I felt almost positive again. I had some breakfast (some coffee, a whole sausage, some beans and a whole piece of bread and butter- more than I'd managed in 18 hours!) with my Mum and her lovely East Lancs LDWA friends who were manning the checkpoint, and who were all ace and cheered me up no end. Gosh, maybe this whole thing was even a good idea! There were only 40 miles left!
It was 6.30 am by the time I left, I had started to think that I could do it. Even if I had to slow down and walk, I was going to get to the end. Helped by an immediate energy boost from a bit of cystallised ginger and a jelly fruit, and with 3 jaffa cakes that my Mum had found in the kitchen squirreled in my bag, I set off into the new day. Honestly, I have the utmost respect for those who take close to the full 48 hours to do it, and who go through two nights. The main thing on my mind as I set off was that however hard it was going to get and however much it hurt, it was all going to be over by that evening. This was the last day of all of my training and all of the build up, and tonight I was going to sleep in my own bed! And have a shower! Hurrah! To be at this point and to think that you are already so wreaked, but to know you've still got to stay up and go through another night must take a tremendous amount of mental strength, and I am utterly in awe of those who can do that.
I hobbled around the next three miles in a little less than an hour. Although I was still ahead of my hoped for time, I knew I was slowing in my legs and mind, and was struggling to keep it together, and spent the hour internally beating myself up over this fact. By the time I got the the breakfast stop I'd had just about enough of everything, especially myself. As soon as I saw my Mum (wearing the Checkpoint Super Hero outfit of apron, ready to cook breakfast for 500 people) I lost it, and dissolved into a blithering useless wreak. A few minutes of Mum Motivation, a change of clothes, some minor foot surgery and new socks and shoes later, I felt almost positive again. I had some breakfast (some coffee, a whole sausage, some beans and a whole piece of bread and butter- more than I'd managed in 18 hours!) with my Mum and her lovely East Lancs LDWA friends who were manning the checkpoint, and who were all ace and cheered me up no end. Gosh, maybe this whole thing was even a good idea! There were only 40 miles left!
It was 6.30 am by the time I left, I had started to think that I could do it. Even if I had to slow down and walk, I was going to get to the end. Helped by an immediate energy boost from a bit of cystallised ginger and a jelly fruit, and with 3 jaffa cakes that my Mum had found in the kitchen squirreled in my bag, I set off into the new day. Honestly, I have the utmost respect for those who take close to the full 48 hours to do it, and who go through two nights. The main thing on my mind as I set off was that however hard it was going to get and however much it hurt, it was all going to be over by that evening. This was the last day of all of my training and all of the build up, and tonight I was going to sleep in my own bed! And have a shower! Hurrah! To be at this point and to think that you are already so wreaked, but to know you've still got to stay up and go through another night must take a tremendous amount of mental strength, and I am utterly in awe of those who can do that.
