A race review – by Rob France:
A gruelling 47 mile foot race along the Thames Path from Oxford to Henley. On foot. His feet. From Go Beyond Race Events.
“What’s the point in all this?”
“What’s the point in what?”
“This. Why am I doing this?”
“Don’t be silly, you’ll enjoy it once you get going”.
Into the darkness we drive, windscreen wipers at full blast. A hit list of Peppa Pig and Jojo Siwa songs blare out to keep the Chiddlers at bay. They had been rudely dragged from their normal Saturday morning routines for a pointless return trip to Oxford.
We arrive at the destination. It’s a peculiar sight, like something from The Handmaid’s Tale but with long socks and those caps with flat peaks. Everyone was masked up.
Hawthorn House Hotel, Iffley – The Start
Ah, Nick Rushton, an old friend. He’s done it before, he says, but his brother is doing it this time.
“Should I look out for you on the course?”, I ask.
“In this”, he points to the sky, “I wouldn’t have thought so mate”.
Jolly good.
A shout of “FIVE MINUTES!” bellows around the car park. I register, drop my shopping, and limber up. The other Handmaids and I group up near the start line, trying to ensure we don’t infect each other.
A man in a hi-vis jacket raises a megaphone to his mouth. “The worst of the flooding is before Check Point 2 (CP2) at Benson. It’s no more than knee deep and it’s safe to walk through. Use the race handbook and you won’t get lost. Keep your distance, stay safe and carry on! 3 – 2 – 1 – GO!”.
Off we go, masks on.
Why is everyone running so fast? What’s happening to me? Let them go, boy, let them go.
It’s a squeeze as we cross Iffley Lock, single file, into the bog of eternal stench beyond. We march on in silence, single file. I push a whole banana into my gullet and wash it down with a squirt of water. Why is no one else doing the same?
Radley College and a few steps of tarmac. The sweet relief. Then back into the sludge we go, leaning into the wind. I’m behind a man that seems to be using far too much energy trying to stay upright, his tennis shoes were a regrettable selection. I try and relax, grateful for the enforced brakes on my pace.
Abingdon. Confusion at the lock as we turn back on ourselves. I pass a group of joggers who clap us on whispering to themselves “is there some sort of event on today?”. A better surface here so I lengthen my stride and force down a peanut butter sandwich. I have to use two hands and it’s a real effort, but in it goes.
My watch says 8:50 per mile. That’s OK. I pass The Broad Face. I’ve still never been in there, but now is not the time, I think.
Culham Lock – CP1 – 9.5 miles
There’s a man with a big plunger. I press down and unleash a sea of sanitizer on to my hands and now I can’t open my flasks – I curse. Somehow I fill them up, grab some sweets and press on. A man with a lovely beard (we shall call him “Beardo”) crosses the bridge as the lights turn, I dive across hoping to hang on to his coat tails and we set off into the slimy filth once again.
A quick body check. Everything seems in order. My back which has been troubling me seems to be fine but my legs feel a little tight for what has only been an hour and a half’s easy run. I lock that thought away and struggle onwards along the greasy river bank leaning into the wind, which seems to be picking up still. Beardo and I get into a punchy rhythm and we start up a pleasant chatter, opening the gates for each other as we go. It’s all really rather lovely.
Two clumps appear in the distance. Whittenham. I know this place. A vision of river cabbage suffocating me as I struggle up a river bank comes to mind. Did that actually happen? Am I hallucinating? I’ve only done ten miles.
We press on.
Rob
Benson – CP2 – 19 miles
“No sign of that flood then!”. Things are looking up. Taking it easier with the sanitizer this time, I whip through the check point, grabbing some nosh and filling my vessels as I do. Regrettably my bearded friend has a moment of madness and heads off towards Thame, I leave him for dead.
Wallingford next and a brief exchange with my parents. “Keep going!”. I run a bit faster as I pass them (what am I doing?) and reject any food they offer. “See you again at Pangbourne!”, they shout.
A look at my watch confirms that 4 hours and 27 miles have passed. Am I going too fast? And then an electrifying twang hits my knee. That’s not good.
Keep going. But it happens again. 20 miles to go and my left leg is itching to run off on its own. I don’t have the skills or equipment to let it do that, so I try and think up another plan. I relieve myself, force down a bar and walk on as the trail takes a left up on to the Chilterns. I try and ward off the darkness but it’s coming in for the kill.
Head down, I plod on, wincing every few steps. A chap that’s clearly done a few of these sorts of things before stops running and walks next to me.
“How are you doing mate?” he says with a smile on his face.
“I’m in a bit of a dark patch, if I’m honest”
“Yep that’ll happen. Embrace it, it’ll pass. You’d feel short changed if you didn’t have some extreme low points wouldn’t you? This is what makes it worth it.”
Unsure, I thank him for his wisdom and limp on. It feels easier going uphill at least and everyone else I can see is walking anyway.
A pat on my back and I look round. It’s Beardo. He tells me he saw me walking and wonders If I’m OK. I pretend I’m fine and force myself into a trot but I can’t keep up. The doubts start creeping back in. My parents are only 4 miles away; make it there and then grab a lift home.
Goring – CP3 – 28 miles
I fill up at the CP and move on, jogging when I can. The trail climbs up a wooded hill side overlooking the Thames. I was looking forward to this bit but I can’t bring myself to enjoy the view. Ten steps, wince. Another ten steps, wince. How can I possibly keep going? This is ridiculous.
An 11 minute mile, a 12 minute mile, a 15 minute mile. I start making calculations in my head. I’ll be out all day if this continues and I’ll need that dead weight of a head torch I reluctantly stuffed into my pack.
Over the bridge and the rain starts to unleash hell. Running has been out of the question for the last mile but I try and put on a trot as I see my parents have made the effort to stand in the horizontal rain again.
“You’re doing well!”
“I’m walking now. I think I might come home with you.”
“Well that’s a very respectable 32 miles you’ve covered”.
“True and I’ve nothing to prove. What’s the point in all this anyway?”
Dark clouds swoop in, sucking my energy away and I lie down.
“I should probably eat”
I’m pulled up and I inhale a pack of nuts. Somehow, we agree that I should carry on to CP4 (3 miles) and hand my chip in there. I can then get a lift home.
I brace myself, lean forward and hobble on.
My old man shouts after me: “Try and enjoy it!”.
What just happened? Shouldn’t I be in the car on the way home?
Mapledurham – CP4 – 34 miles
A gentleman is handing in his number and chip.
“I’m done”, he says.
“Good. You’re making this decision easy for me.” I say.
“Oh no you don’t.” his friend says. “He’s done but you can walk to the finish in four hours. Eat these.”
He hands my some energy shots and pushes me up the hill. I really don’t want to be out here for another four hours.
I curse myself for not objecting. How can I possibly carry on? I didn’t agree to this!
I arrive at the top of the Purley housing estate and recall that this is the last climb. The descent back down to river level helps pull me into a trot and I count the steps until the next wince. The leg’s achy but the electrifying twang doesn’t come. I make a deal with myself to keep jogging for a mile as much as I don’t want to. Ten minutes later my watch beeps, but I keep going. The high rise office blocks are coming into view now. Reading. That’s got a nice ring to it “Oxford to Reading”. I can get a lift home from Reading Bridge. I plod on.
The next mile beeps and I forget that I should have been keeping an eye on the knee twangs. There can’t have been one. I make the same deal again and realise I have been running for a continuous twenty minutes. Fresh Saturday afternoon joggers bound past me, and I watch on with jealousy. I resolve to make a better effort to lift up my feet and knees, and lean forward. The wind’s behind me now.
Reading comes and goes. How did that happen? OK, I’ll get a lift from Sonning. That’s just two miles from home and not too much of an effort for Bea and the Chiddlers – I don’t want to disturb their day. Deal.
My watch beeps. 9:50 for that mile. I’m getting faster but if I stop now there’s no guarantee that I’ll be able to start again. I engage my shoulder and charge through any groups of happy walkers, my side step has long gone.
Sonning Bridge – CP5 – 42 miles
Through Sonning Lock and I curse the gates but in the distance I can see two girls and their mother dancing in the rain. As I creep closer I realise it’s my family. Not wanting to let my emotions surface I fake a smile, high five them, fill up my flasks at CP5 and just before I lean on into the abyss…. “Can you grab us some sweets Dads!”. Sure. I throw them some jellies and trudge on into the wild.
Five minutes pass……hang on. I was supposed to stop back there! OK, don’t panic. I’ll be running past home in a mile and a half. I can crawl back if I need to. Oxford to Home. That has a really nice ring to it.
Shiplake College comes and something in my mind changes. The finish is only three miles away! I run this section most days. That’s an hour’s walk. But I don’t walk, I don’t need to, I run on.
“This way!” I shout to two tattooed guys as they turn towards Wargrave oblivious that they would be adding on a further two hours to their run. We plod on together and I talk them through what’s ahead. Some tarmac, some bog, a bridge over a weir and then more tarmac. Re-energised, they sprint off ahead.
I shake my head in disbelief – I’m still going! Marsh Lock and I’m on to the finishing straight. Family walkers are everywhere so I engage the shoulder again (“Coming through!”), as I somehow pick up the pace. The guru I saw just before Pangbourne is ahead so I pat him on the back and try to get him to run along with me. He bursts out laughing shaking his head: “Back from the dead!”.
I gallop on. I’m an unstoppable force now; I’m possibly the greatest of all time!
At long last, the finish comes into view. My girls are running towards me but I signal to them to turn around and head for the finish. I grab their hands and drag them across the line, before stumbling backwards in a daze, 8 hours after I started. A kind woman shoves a medal, a t-shirt and a can of coke into my stomach and I find a wall to lean on as I think about what I’ve done.
There’s Beardo! We exchange congratulations – he finished half an hour earlier.
I thank the few supporters of mine that braved the weather and head home for a bath and beer, preparing myself for a full day of kitchen tiling that looms. Thanks to Go Beyond Race Events for the event – well organised and well implemented in tough times. A strong review for this race from this man, and his feet.
What a completely pointless way to spend a Saturday.
