Simeon Whiting reports: Ah, spring on the South Downs. Green, rolling hills glowing in the sunshine, lambs frolicking on said hills and 400 eccentrics plodding from Worthing to Eastbourne. I might as well admit at the outset that I have unfinished business with the South Downs Way. I tried my luck with the 100 mile event three years ago and it cut me down to size. After 46 gruelling miles, I dropped out and limped home to lick my wounds. So taking on the 50 miler is a challenge in its own right but also a chance to recce the course for another crack at the full 100.
Saturday 13th April dawns with the promise of perfect trail running conditions: sunshine, a balmy 16 degrees and a gentle tailwind.
‘Don’t come to me later and complain it was a headwind,’ says the Race Director in the briefing, with an exaggerated eye-roll.
My mood is also helped by the solid block of training I have behind me. I’ve racked up the miles – on trail and road – and added in strength and conditioning work. (It turns out that strength and conditioning helps to prevent injuries. Who knew, right?) I also have Andy, my brother-in-law and regular ultra running wingman, joining me on this adventure. I’m all set for a lovely day out on the downs.
‘80 kilometres. 16 parkruns,’ Andy mutters, as we wait for the start. I think he means to sound reassuring. But who in their right mind would run 16 parkruns, back-to-back?
The klaxon sounds and we’re off, jogging out of Worthing Rec and onto the hills and chalk trails. The early miles pass easily and at what feels like a sensible pace. When we reach the ten mile aid station, we pause only to top up our water and grab a snack, then carry straight on. We run what’s runnable, we hike the hills. Everything is going according to plan.
Andy has seen to it that we will have an impressive support team. His parents, wife, kids, in-laws and two mates all make it to several points on the course to cheer us on. (But not to hand us food or kit. Ooh, no. That would constitute ‘crewing’ and would be enough to see us both disqualified.)
As I hoped, the race route presents us with breathtaking views of rural Sussex, which looks quite beautiful in the sunshine. I lived in Sussex for three years as a kid, so there’s a little nostalgia in passing a few landmarks that I recognise. There’s that farm I once went to on a school trip. There are the two windmills I could see from my junior school. And is it my imagination, or can I really make out the school lurking behind that row of trees in the distance?
It’s around the 20 mile mark that things begin to go awry. The gentle tailwind has become strong enough to knock me off balance, the rolling hills now feel just a little longer and steeper, and what had earlier seemed a sensible pace is now unsustainable. Or at least it is for me. Andy is still striding ahead and goading me into running instead of walking. This is particularly galling because I know for a fact that Andy’s training had been nothing like as thorough as mine; he’s winging it. It’s tempting to just tell him to go on without me but I have a nagging suspicion that, annoying as he is, I need him to spur me on.
One of the strange and wonderful things about endurance running is the peaks and troughs of the whole experience. The peaks can be exhilarating, euphoric; the troughs can be utterly crushing. There is no predicting when and where each might come and the smallest, most insignificant thing can lift you or bring you down to the depths. Today, the turning point is a pot of jelly. At the 34 mile aid station, I cast my eye over the food on offer and see a table laden with paper cups and spoons. On closer inspection, I find that the cups contain strawberry jelly and tinned fruit. Only six-year-olds and ultra runners get excited about these things. For me, this is a glimpse of heaven, a fleeting moment of joy when I most need it. I bound out of the aid station and back onto the trail with a grin on my face and a renewed spring in my step.
As I get my second wind, Andy begins to fade. Now it’s my turn to goad him. I am chatty, I am cheerful. I am tireless, I am tiresome. (And yes, I am also a little smug about having done more miles in training.) Not far to go now. After grabbing a coffee at 41 miles, we keep it steady, managing a fast walk up two unrelenting hills and picking our way down some treacherous technical descents.
45 miles. The finish is in sight. A discussion about targets. Ten hours might be just about possible but we have to push. Dropping down off the final hill, we have a mile and a half of road between us and the finish. By now, both of us are ruined, but we somehow find the energy for a final effort at nine-minute mile pace. Andy’s two mates meet us in the last mile, cheering and whooping, but we are beyond speech now. I manage a limp thumbs-up as I stagger past them. And there, gleaming like El Dorado, is Eastbourne Sports Club. A delirious lap of the track and over the finish line in 9:50:14. Andy collapses to the ground and is mobbed by his son and daughter. I fumble my way into some warm clothes and guzzle another much-needed cup of coffee.
What a fantastic day! Beautiful route, heroic marshals and a very respectable time. Did I enjoy it? That’s actually a difficult question to answer. 50 miles is never easy and 5,700 feet of elevation gain don’t improve matters. But where’s the fun in an easy race?