Official race report and results: Click here
1st: Ian Hammett 14:36:25
2nd: John Melbourne 14:58:46
3rd: Paul Beechey 15:48:19
1st Debbie Martin-Consani 17:40:08
2nd Ingrid Lid 17:48:25
3rd Wendy Whearity 18:26:12
I did the Thames Path 100 back in 2013 when it was held in
March. It’s now known in Centurion
circles as the ‘flood-adapted route’. As
the description might suggest, the river had burst its banks and most of the
path was underwater. Leaving runners
“unable to distinguish the difference between path and river and potentially be
swept away” ... in a raging
torrent. To their ultimate untimely
demise. I
paraphrase, but you get the gist.
Despite being one of the last (wo)men standing that year - when it
came down the survival of the most stupid - it has always been unfinished business. It’s not really the TP100, even if it was 100
(+4 for extra joy) miles on the Thames Path.
It’s like running from Milngavie to Tyndrum and back and calling it the
WHW race.
I always said I’d go back and repeat it on the full. Well, when I
say always, I mean it took me a few years to recover from the mud and sheer
torment. But that’s how I found myself
standing in Richmond on the banks of the River Thames with the goal to running
the full distance to Oxford.
Richmond to Windsor: Keep
your head, while everyone else is losing theirs
It’s a flat and fast start
along hard-packed path. The lethal
cocktail of nerves, enthusiasm, ambition and bravado means the pace for the
first few miles can be quite frantic. And somewhat futile. I had to keep checking my watch and
curtailing my pace. Reminding myself
that I had to run my own race. Not anyone else’s.
As always at the start of races, you share
a few miles with different runners. It
was lovely to catch up the Ireland’s finest, Leanne Rive. Who has an enviable race CV. We were so involved in our chatter, we missed
the steps and bridge turn off and were somewhat confused seeing runners on the
other side of the water. Lost at 4.5
miles. Joy. The course is well-marked so I vowed to be
more vigilant, but when there is so much going on around it’s so easy to miss
race markers.
Leanne disappeared into the distance and I
caught up the Kat Short, who was on the side of the trail sorting out her
shoes. We got chatting about Manchester
Marathon, which I had run four weeks before Thames Path. My original plan for 2019 was to run the
SDW50, but I swapped to run Manchester and TP100 instead. The latter doubling up as a Western States
qualifier too. It will be my 4th time in
the draw gives me around an 8% chance of getting a place in 2020 race. Not hopeful, but they have to let me in
eventually, right.
Before
the first aid station at Walton on Thames at around 12 miles, a supporter out
on the trail told me I was 8th female. I
smiled and thanked them, but was secretly irked by the unsolicited
information. I try to actively avoid any
race updates. Especially in the early stages, as it can be so
disheartening. I often tell my crew I
only want information on a need-to-know basis. Or when requested. Marco and Cairn were on crew duty for the
day, because I vowed to be quicker than last time.
All a bit uneventful
for the next 15 miles. Just ticking along, moving up a few
places. Trying not to lose my head. I was toing and froing a bit with Dave
from Aberdeen (who’s actually from Northern Ireland) Little did I know that we
would spend the whole 100 miles within striking distance of each other and
finish a few minutes apart.
Heading
into Windsor I had a chuckle at the space where the MASSIVE puddle from 2013
was. I was told me I was 2nd lady, but I
was pretty sure I was third.
Met
Marco briefly there picked up some fluid, waved at some people on a boat
staring at me and went to go up steps onto the bridge. For the love of god what happened to my
legs? 30 flat and consistent miles and
my legs couldn’t deal with the change in movement. It was horrendous. I have been suffering from a hamstring
‘niggle’ for a year now. I say niggle
because it’s never been bad enough not to run.
Flat
is certainly not easy. It’s the same
muscles and movement getting hammered over and over again for hours. I’d say it’s much harder on the body, mind
and feet than any undulating or hilly trails. Plus, at least with hilly routes
you have an excuse to power hike (*cough* walk) and use your quads on the
downhills. Flat for me is just calves
and hamstrings.
Windsor to Reading: You don’t know until you try
I
ran with Jay for a bit, who I met out at Spartathlon. He’d just run a sub-3 marathon in London six
days before, which is an unorthodox tune-up session. He was still in better spirits than me
though. I’d hit that “why the f*ck am I
doing this” stage and my good friend nausea was starting to raise its ugly
head. I was being a crabbit and
unsociable bitch. My head was starting
to go and all the negative thoughts were creeping. I was trying hard to push them away. Breath. Focus.
I
just had to focus on breaking down the race.
Aid station to aid station. When
I arrived at the Dorney aid station, Ingrid Lid was there. The teeny Norwegian is a bit of a rising star
and was definitely the one beat in this race.
I was surprised to see her there, but moved straight though. Soon I heard footsteps and caught Ingrid at
the corner of my eye. She attached herself to my heels and stayed there -
for the best part of 10km. I won’t say this didn’t unsettle me, because
it did. But way less than normal. I wasn’t pacing her, she just wasn’t
going to let me out of her sight.
Understandable. It’s not as if she’s going to
drop back just because I’d quite like to win.
At Maidenhead stopped to get something from Marco. Anything.
I just felt sick and was being moany and pretty negative. I let Ingrid go and I didn’t care. I wasn’t chasing and had to focus on sorting
my shit out. I pushed on through to
Cookham, remembering this was the turnaround point (twice) for the 2013
edition. Although I didn’t remember
anything of the preceding 35 miles. Well
apart from it was considerably less muddy and there were people out on the path
this time.
At
Marlow, Marco met me with some ActiveRoot, which I’d forgotten I’d packed. He was on the ball. I sat on a bench feeling
sorry for myself, but the ginger drink made me feel better pretty quickly. Onwards and through Marlow I was being
super cautious following the 2.5 mile road diversion, in the pissing rain, before
dropping back onto the parth. In Hurley
I saw Ingrid in the aid station, smiled, pushed on and made out I was having
the BEST. TIME. EVER. Tactics, right.
The
sun after the rain was stunning. Steam
was rising from the roof of the riverboats and it was the first time I thought:
it’s actually not a bad place to run.
Yeah there’s a Thames. And a
path. But there’s not anything
significant and the scenery rarely changes.
There are certainly moments of magic and I tried to embrace every second
of those moments.
Crossing
some fields, I kept telling myself not to look back. Never look back. It’s like the guy in the war movie who looks
at the photo of his love back home. You
know he’s a gonner. Looking back is showing weakness. But I did use any bend in the path to have
teeny wee peak out of the corner of my eye.
On
to Henley – that half-way point - which seemed
to take way longer than expected. Walking in the tent, Marco was hissing
in my ear about staying quiet and not saying a word. He must have been really sick of my
whining. Turns out Alex Whearity was
there waiting to buddy run with his wife, Wendy. Marco was of course trying to restrain me
from vocalising my distress to the opposition.
But, to be fair, I felt OK at that point. The usually rollercoaster of ultrarunning.
The
section from Henley is quite lovely.
Quaint riverside trails, with meadow-esque flora and fauna. I still managed to miss a sign and got
shouted back. Thanks, James. And in turn had to shout back another chap
who was 400 metres down the road.
Reading to the Oxford:
Don’t get comfortable
I
felt rough AF when I got to Reading. I
had a lethal combination of Tailwind, Gu and ActiveRoot swirling around in my
stomach. When I met Marco, I stopped and
promptly vomited - twice - outside the sports centre. Which instantly made me feel better, so off I went. Happy in fact that I knew most of the route
from there. Once running the Winter 100,
another from crewing Sharon at The Autumn 100 last year and in March II’d run
the last 30 miles as a recce run. Having some awareness of my surroundings and
doubting I’d go off course again, I felt comfortable switching on some musical
distraction for the next 12 miles or so.
Things
were starting to unravel by the time I got to Goring, as I hit an energy void
and had pretty much stopped eating and drinking. I was still moving ok - ish from Reading to
Goring and got a boost seeing Dan and James with their musical renditions on
the piano (surreal) at the aid station.
For the next seven miles to Wallingford I was f*cked. There was nothing. It was a really just jogging and taking
annoying and unjustified walking breaks.
I struggled to keep my feet moving over the dried mud. I was stumbling, tripping as not picking my
feet up and the tussocky grass was so frustrating to run on and ankles kept
tipping. It wasn’t sore, just
inconvenient. I knew I’d slowed
dramatically and was haemorrhaging time, but in my complacent mind I just
assumed everyone was slowing at this point. Wrong.
At
Wallingford I laid down in the carpark and asked Marco for some stats. He duly informed me Ingrid was 18 minutes
behind at the last timing point and Wendy was 20. Fuck! I was on my feet tout
de suite. I knew after my disastrous
last section the gap would be MUCH closer.
It
was like flicking a switch. I was out of
there - but not before missing another turn and nearly heading over the bridge.
I was energised. And focussed. They were closing, but I had to at least try. I was basically running scared now, but with
a new found energy and the kick up the arse I needed. I didn’t feel sick anymore and there was no
pain or fatigue in my legs. The mind is
a pretty wonderful thing.
Then
a few miles on I missed the bridge turning again. I kept going even though intuition was
telling me I was wrong and should turn back.
I got to disused rusty gate covered in overgrown bushes. Fuck. I got my phone out to check the map and
confirmed I was way off. Back-tracking
I spotted the Ingrid disappearing over the bridge I’d just missed. The bridge with the massive Centurion sign
and arrow.
I
caught up with her again at the riverside in Benson. We didn’t exchange much conversation, not
because we were being antisocial but we were both pretty exhausted. She ran on my heels for the six miles to
Clifton Hampdon checkpoint. I’m not sure
if I was pacing or just there to open gates.
We
arrived at the checkpoint together. I’m
sure this was way more exciting for those dot watching than it was for either
of us. Marco threw a bottle at me,
stuffed more gels in my pocket and chased me down the street.
I
was on a mission. Even with 12 years of
ultra experience, I’m still learning so much about myself. If you had told me about the situation of
being caught at 88 miles before the race, I would have envisioned that I would
have backed down. Resigned myself to
have been beaten. Used my sickness as an
excuse and bored everyone to death on social media with my tales of woe. But f*ck that. I was churning out all the heavy Goggins
classics in my mind. I read a race
preview online on the train down that predicted I would come in second, at best. I used that as fuel too.
To
break, I had to give it everything.
Don’t look back just go. No
music. Just focus. But maybe listen for footsteps and gates
closing too. There was silence. Before Abingdon, I crossed a field and
counted, calculating that it took me a couple of minutes to get to the other
side. I covered my headtorch with my
hand and looked back. No sign.
Arriving
at the Abingdon checkpoint I was a little more relaxed. Just keep moving. One of the marshals asked me to leave with
Dave and Darren as there was a boat owner (allegedly) threatening to throw
runners in the water. I suspect that
story might have grown arms and legs. I
can only assume the marshall wanted me to protect the boys. Marco even said I’d be fine to go myself.
Nine
miles to go. Just break it down mile-by-mile I kept telling myself. I did my usual not eating or drinking because
I thought I didn’t need it. Stupid ultra thinking. I ran with the boys for a few miles. My chat was shite and I was worried they felt they needed to
look after me. They really didn’t. I run through the ghettos of Glasgow without
blinking an eye. I’m sure I could outrun
an angry boat owner.
They arrived into Lower Radley a minute or so before me and looked like they
were settling in for the evening. I
exited and crossed the chip mat and was on my way. It wasn’t long before I see the bobbing
lights of head-torches appearing from behind.
On
the gravel path I knew I was about two miles to the finish. I used up my fight to break earlier and just
kept chipping away. I saw the lights
from the buildings on the right side, so knew I was getting closer. Left turn into the field and I crossed the
finish line in 17:40.
A win is a win, right. True. But it’s not always about winning. It was an hour slower than I wanted to be. And if I’m honest with myself, I don’t think it’s a time or performance worthy of the race win. Hyper-critical, possibly, but it’s the reality. Got that monkey off my back. I wanted to win and finish top 10. Plus, I got to run the full route. Job done. I’ve never really considered myself a very competitive person, so I was surprised by the way I responded. If I’m still learning in races, I’m still progressing. Thanks to Ingrid for this unearthing. She's a feisty and tough one. My favourite kind of gal.
A win is a win, right. True. But it’s not always about winning. It was an hour slower than I wanted to be. And if I’m honest with myself, I don’t think it’s a time or performance worthy of the race win. Hyper-critical, possibly, but it’s the reality. Got that monkey off my back. I wanted to win and finish top 10. Plus, I got to run the full route. Job done. I’ve never really considered myself a very competitive person, so I was surprised by the way I responded. If I’m still learning in races, I’m still progressing. Thanks to Ingrid for this unearthing. She's a feisty and tough one. My favourite kind of gal.
Thanks,
as always, to James and team for putting on the best UK races. I’m not just biased, it’s a fact. To coach Pyllon for putting up with my
erratic race schedule. And to Marco and Cairn for being the best crew
ever. The trip to the National Space Centre
the next day was a freaking nightmare, but a fair compromise I think. We can take comfort in the fact that I can't understand that geeky stuff even with a fresh brain anyway.
Race results
Race results
1st: Ian Hammett 14:36:25
2nd: John Melbourne 14:58:46
3rd: Paul Beechey 15:48:19
1st Debbie Martin-Consani 17:40:08
2nd Ingrid Lid 17:48:25
3rd Wendy Whearity 18:26:12