You're Scottish, you don't need a pole, mate
Well, that didn't go to plan.
Sitting on the lit-up departure bus, enduring the seemingly endless bumps and swerves as it made its way up a track to the race start line, in the pitch dark, dodging the motorbikes, scooters and villagers (do these people never sleep?!), I had an ominous feeling. And, when it's dark outside and you're on your own in a foreign country, with a 100km race in front of you, that ominous feeling turns to downright petrification pretty quickly.
I had been fine. During the journey, firstly from the UK to Hanoi, and then from Hanoi to the Sapa mountains with my friend, I'd been fairly chilled. No point in being nervous, I'd conceded, it's too late to do anything about it now. But as I'd been getting changed into my race kit, with just an hour and a half till bus departure, the jitters had set in. I was forgetting something, I was definitely forgetting something.
I arrived at dinner, panicking about the fact I couldn't find my safety pins (what the hell had I done with them?!). And then panicking about the fact I didn't have a trekking pole because I'd been worried about getting it through security at the airport. And then panicking about the fact the queue for pasta was taking forever.
"Would you like some hot wine?" A Vietnamese waitress asked as she passed with a jug of red wine. I let out a slightly higher pitched laugh than was necessary.
"Unfortunately, no." Although I really could just jack the whole idea in now and settle myself down for a nice night in a hotel with wine and pasta. Why wasn't I doing that again?!
My friend joined me.
"I haven't got a trekking pole! Why didn't I just bring a trekking pole?" The nervous regurgitation of panic started. "And where the **** are my safety pins?!"
"You're Scottish, you don't need a pole, mate."
Oh, how very wrong this would turn out to be.
It was approximately 3am when I realised my mistake. The past 6 hours had been dark, gruelling and silent bar the sound of crickets. The terrain and non-stop steep climbs and steeper descents made for weary work in the humid atmosphere. But I'd kept a close eye on hydration, fluctuating between feeling sick and not feeling sick...aaaand I feel sick again, as I tried to get as much water down as possible. I was still sweating (which was only identifiable through the wet atmosphere by wiping my top lip and then testing if it was salty again 10 minutes later) so I wasn't medically in trouble.
The sight of the bright lights on each checkpoint had been a saviour for the mind and, somehow, I was just about holding it together despite having none of the usual camaraderie or chatter between runners that I'm used to.
But....
That little, near bloody vertical bit just behind the red arrow? That was a 4.5km ****** of a climb. The rain had started to pour at the checkpoint at the bottom and the bugs had come out with a vengeance (though nothing was biting so it was all good). I was losing my faith in good old talc but I talced up regardless and threw on my packaway cagoule. The cagoule was dotty and made me look less ultra-runner, more Miss Annie, but I wasn't at a point of caring.
A few rocky steps out of the checkpoint: yep, I've got this. And then I turned a corner and the little dot of light from my head torch hit ground which was...well, very upright. I looked up and the incline in front of me didn't end. I tried to place my feet well for the next twenty or so minutes, grabbing hold of reeds or trees next to me to haul myself up, digging my hands into the mud when there was no vegetation strong enough. My feet slid from underneath me time and time again. Good grief, how was I supposed to get a foothold?! I struggled for a good while, expecting the ground to level out a little at some point. It didn't.
By some miracle - or perhaps some guardian angel felt sorry for me - a very kind runner gave me one of his trekking poles, making the effort still difficult but at least more efficient.
It would be fair to say I've never known such a long and gruelling night. I wasn't sure the daylight would ever come, and with runners passing each other like ships in the night, I'd never felt so lonely. I told myself over and over it felt horrible because it was night time, it would feel better in the daylight, the mental struggle wouldn't be so heavy.
Daylight did eventually come, and the miles in front of me became less monstrous. Perhaps the knowledge of the miles I'd covered gave me a lift too. But the incredible scenery, endless mountains, terraced paddy fields and tiny villages dotted across the landscape, weren't thrilling me as I'd so hoped they would. I had been picking my way across almost impossible terrain at times for 9 hours, I'd sweated more than I ever thought I could, and I was longing for the friendship and chatter I hadn't even realised I needed during a race. I had, possibly, another 10 or 11 hours to go, and keeping that thought at bay on your own is a challenge.
Passing through the tiny clusters of houses and barns, made of bamboo and odds and ends, we got to see how the locals go about their mornings, feeding ducks and moving buffalo to different paddies. The stray dogs, who all looked happy and healthy, were waking up and moseying about. Children from around the mountains were all making their way down the tracks to the local school. Scooters and motorbikes were still zooming about, horns tooting from around every corner.
I reached the halfway point in 9 and a half hours, surprising the heck out of myself. Frustratingly, my phone threw a tantrum and wouldn't let me text my mum and so I had to settle for a little celebration in my head. Wolfing down some watermelon and salted almonds, I was about to set off again when I noticed the profile map had something written under the checkpoint after next. "10am cut off". Well bugger, I hadn't noticed that before. That would mean covering the next 20km in around 3 hours. A little bit of panic fluttered in my chest. The next 20 km was gradually climbing the highest mountain on the course. If I was going to make it, it was going to be tight. Really tight.
I'd give it my best shot.
The next 12 or so kilometers to the next checkpoint seemed to go on forever and I only saw time slipping away. As I finally approached the table of water and fruit outside a lady's tin-roofed shop at 8.55am, I had tears rolling down my face. Partly from exhaustion, and partly because I knew fine well I wasn't going to make the next 7 or 8 uphill kilometers in just one hour.
The marshall behind the table stared at me in frozen confusion. His training hadn't covered crying runners; what the hell was he supposed to do with this one?
"You need nurse?" He asked, tentatively.
"No, no, I'm okay," I tried to smile, grabbing a piece of watermelon and shoving it in my mouth as proof of my okay-ness.
I looked at the profile again, just to double check the cut off time for the next checkpoint. And yes, I hadn't been mistaken, it was still 10am. I would only be able to make that if I was fresh off the startline, there wasn't a chance I was managing it with 12 hours of mountain running in my legs.
But I'd be damned if I was making the decision to pull out. Absolutely not. I'd go until somebody told me to stop.
Taking a steadying breath, I told myself to stop being such a ****. What was all the crying for? I was going to enjoy this final part otherwise it would have all been horrible. I took my Miss Annie jacket off again. Used the talc for under my arms and bra (it still seemed to work for these regions), and the utterly relieving stick of coconut oil lip balm for...other regions (a rather desperate but ingenious 3.30am discovery), I got myself as comfortable as I could and set off at a slow but determined pace. I stopped to take pictures, breathe in my surroundings and try my best to enjoy this absolutely incredible place.
At 9.50am I came across two runners making there way back down from the cut off checkpoint. I was still 2 or 3 kilometers away from it.
"We won't make cut off," one of the runners shrugged. "My legs are fatigued."
"You come down with us?" The other runner asked. By her stilted gait I could tell she was sore.
I hesitated. Did I carry on or turn back to the previous checkpoint?
"No buses up there," the first runner pointed up the mountain, seeing my hesitation.
"Okay," I shrugged with a sigh. I was done. It was over.
We walked back down. On the way, we came across another runner determinedly but slowly making his way up, still on course. I asked him if he too was going to turn around.
"No, no!" He didn't look up from the ground but sounded animated.
I looked at my watch. "It's 9.55..." I said, hesitantly.
"Yes, let's do this!!" He shook his trekking pole in the air and carried on.
I admired his ambition.
Back down at the lady's tin-roofed shop, I sat down on one of the incredibly shortlegged plastic chairs and passed out within 30 seconds, only waking when the DNF bus pulled up. In all honesty, at that moment in time, I was relieved. I knew I'd be gutted in a few days, but right now I didn't have to fight my mind and body into tackling mile after mile, hour after hour, mountain after mountain, and after 13 hours of it, that felt quite good.
A few hours later, having peeled off my caked trainers and socks at the hotel entrance as they wouldn't let me in otherwise, I found my friend who had finished his marathon which had also been gruelling. Still exhausted, emotions threatening to spill over, I burst into tears at the sight of a friendly face.
The next day, I was in a slightly more mentally stable state to have a look at numbers. 47% of my race alone either pulled out or were timed out. The organisers had changed the 2019 course and, on comparison, had I run last year I would have made the midway cut off (63km, 11am) by two hours. But there's no point in thinking like that. I didn't run last year, I ran this year, and I wasn't fast enough. But while that fact will undoubtedly knock my confidence for a while, I've learned so much from this race which will be invaluable in the Jungle. From foot care to equipment, there's a heap of things I need to consider from first-hand experience. As well as a stark awareness I need the camaraderie and bonds my races so far have always given me.
Thankfully, I had a week of exploring beautiful Vietnam to process everything. Hopping on boats and bikes, moseying around islands, staring in wonder at temples, pagodas and caves, trying a host of different foods, and drinking a fair amount of beer, the gutting feeling of an uncrossed finish line faded somewhat.
I've got 8 months till the Jungle (which is a scary thought in itself). 8 months of preparing, and 8 months of clawing back that confidence. In the words of that incredibly determined runner: "Let's do this!"
Sitting on the lit-up departure bus, enduring the seemingly endless bumps and swerves as it made its way up a track to the race start line, in the pitch dark, dodging the motorbikes, scooters and villagers (do these people never sleep?!), I had an ominous feeling. And, when it's dark outside and you're on your own in a foreign country, with a 100km race in front of you, that ominous feeling turns to downright petrification pretty quickly.
I had been fine. During the journey, firstly from the UK to Hanoi, and then from Hanoi to the Sapa mountains with my friend, I'd been fairly chilled. No point in being nervous, I'd conceded, it's too late to do anything about it now. But as I'd been getting changed into my race kit, with just an hour and a half till bus departure, the jitters had set in. I was forgetting something, I was definitely forgetting something.
I arrived at dinner, panicking about the fact I couldn't find my safety pins (what the hell had I done with them?!). And then panicking about the fact I didn't have a trekking pole because I'd been worried about getting it through security at the airport. And then panicking about the fact the queue for pasta was taking forever.
"Would you like some hot wine?" A Vietnamese waitress asked as she passed with a jug of red wine. I let out a slightly higher pitched laugh than was necessary.
"Unfortunately, no." Although I really could just jack the whole idea in now and settle myself down for a nice night in a hotel with wine and pasta. Why wasn't I doing that again?!
My friend joined me.
"I haven't got a trekking pole! Why didn't I just bring a trekking pole?" The nervous regurgitation of panic started. "And where the **** are my safety pins?!"
"You're Scottish, you don't need a pole, mate."
Oh, how very wrong this would turn out to be.
It was approximately 3am when I realised my mistake. The past 6 hours had been dark, gruelling and silent bar the sound of crickets. The terrain and non-stop steep climbs and steeper descents made for weary work in the humid atmosphere. But I'd kept a close eye on hydration, fluctuating between feeling sick and not feeling sick...aaaand I feel sick again, as I tried to get as much water down as possible. I was still sweating (which was only identifiable through the wet atmosphere by wiping my top lip and then testing if it was salty again 10 minutes later) so I wasn't medically in trouble.
The sight of the bright lights on each checkpoint had been a saviour for the mind and, somehow, I was just about holding it together despite having none of the usual camaraderie or chatter between runners that I'm used to.
But....
That little, near bloody vertical bit just behind the red arrow? That was a 4.5km ****** of a climb. The rain had started to pour at the checkpoint at the bottom and the bugs had come out with a vengeance (though nothing was biting so it was all good). I was losing my faith in good old talc but I talced up regardless and threw on my packaway cagoule. The cagoule was dotty and made me look less ultra-runner, more Miss Annie, but I wasn't at a point of caring.
A few rocky steps out of the checkpoint: yep, I've got this. And then I turned a corner and the little dot of light from my head torch hit ground which was...well, very upright. I looked up and the incline in front of me didn't end. I tried to place my feet well for the next twenty or so minutes, grabbing hold of reeds or trees next to me to haul myself up, digging my hands into the mud when there was no vegetation strong enough. My feet slid from underneath me time and time again. Good grief, how was I supposed to get a foothold?! I struggled for a good while, expecting the ground to level out a little at some point. It didn't.
By some miracle - or perhaps some guardian angel felt sorry for me - a very kind runner gave me one of his trekking poles, making the effort still difficult but at least more efficient.
It would be fair to say I've never known such a long and gruelling night. I wasn't sure the daylight would ever come, and with runners passing each other like ships in the night, I'd never felt so lonely. I told myself over and over it felt horrible because it was night time, it would feel better in the daylight, the mental struggle wouldn't be so heavy.
Daylight did eventually come, and the miles in front of me became less monstrous. Perhaps the knowledge of the miles I'd covered gave me a lift too. But the incredible scenery, endless mountains, terraced paddy fields and tiny villages dotted across the landscape, weren't thrilling me as I'd so hoped they would. I had been picking my way across almost impossible terrain at times for 9 hours, I'd sweated more than I ever thought I could, and I was longing for the friendship and chatter I hadn't even realised I needed during a race. I had, possibly, another 10 or 11 hours to go, and keeping that thought at bay on your own is a challenge.
Passing through the tiny clusters of houses and barns, made of bamboo and odds and ends, we got to see how the locals go about their mornings, feeding ducks and moving buffalo to different paddies. The stray dogs, who all looked happy and healthy, were waking up and moseying about. Children from around the mountains were all making their way down the tracks to the local school. Scooters and motorbikes were still zooming about, horns tooting from around every corner.
I reached the halfway point in 9 and a half hours, surprising the heck out of myself. Frustratingly, my phone threw a tantrum and wouldn't let me text my mum and so I had to settle for a little celebration in my head. Wolfing down some watermelon and salted almonds, I was about to set off again when I noticed the profile map had something written under the checkpoint after next. "10am cut off". Well bugger, I hadn't noticed that before. That would mean covering the next 20km in around 3 hours. A little bit of panic fluttered in my chest. The next 20 km was gradually climbing the highest mountain on the course. If I was going to make it, it was going to be tight. Really tight.
I'd give it my best shot.
The next 12 or so kilometers to the next checkpoint seemed to go on forever and I only saw time slipping away. As I finally approached the table of water and fruit outside a lady's tin-roofed shop at 8.55am, I had tears rolling down my face. Partly from exhaustion, and partly because I knew fine well I wasn't going to make the next 7 or 8 uphill kilometers in just one hour.
The marshall behind the table stared at me in frozen confusion. His training hadn't covered crying runners; what the hell was he supposed to do with this one?
"You need nurse?" He asked, tentatively.
"No, no, I'm okay," I tried to smile, grabbing a piece of watermelon and shoving it in my mouth as proof of my okay-ness.
I looked at the profile again, just to double check the cut off time for the next checkpoint. And yes, I hadn't been mistaken, it was still 10am. I would only be able to make that if I was fresh off the startline, there wasn't a chance I was managing it with 12 hours of mountain running in my legs.
But I'd be damned if I was making the decision to pull out. Absolutely not. I'd go until somebody told me to stop.
Taking a steadying breath, I told myself to stop being such a ****. What was all the crying for? I was going to enjoy this final part otherwise it would have all been horrible. I took my Miss Annie jacket off again. Used the talc for under my arms and bra (it still seemed to work for these regions), and the utterly relieving stick of coconut oil lip balm for...other regions (a rather desperate but ingenious 3.30am discovery), I got myself as comfortable as I could and set off at a slow but determined pace. I stopped to take pictures, breathe in my surroundings and try my best to enjoy this absolutely incredible place.
At 9.50am I came across two runners making there way back down from the cut off checkpoint. I was still 2 or 3 kilometers away from it.
"We won't make cut off," one of the runners shrugged. "My legs are fatigued."
"You come down with us?" The other runner asked. By her stilted gait I could tell she was sore.
I hesitated. Did I carry on or turn back to the previous checkpoint?
"No buses up there," the first runner pointed up the mountain, seeing my hesitation.
"Okay," I shrugged with a sigh. I was done. It was over.
We walked back down. On the way, we came across another runner determinedly but slowly making his way up, still on course. I asked him if he too was going to turn around.
"No, no!" He didn't look up from the ground but sounded animated.
I looked at my watch. "It's 9.55..." I said, hesitantly.
"Yes, let's do this!!" He shook his trekking pole in the air and carried on.
I admired his ambition.
Back down at the lady's tin-roofed shop, I sat down on one of the incredibly shortlegged plastic chairs and passed out within 30 seconds, only waking when the DNF bus pulled up. In all honesty, at that moment in time, I was relieved. I knew I'd be gutted in a few days, but right now I didn't have to fight my mind and body into tackling mile after mile, hour after hour, mountain after mountain, and after 13 hours of it, that felt quite good.
A few hours later, having peeled off my caked trainers and socks at the hotel entrance as they wouldn't let me in otherwise, I found my friend who had finished his marathon which had also been gruelling. Still exhausted, emotions threatening to spill over, I burst into tears at the sight of a friendly face.
The next day, I was in a slightly more mentally stable state to have a look at numbers. 47% of my race alone either pulled out or were timed out. The organisers had changed the 2019 course and, on comparison, had I run last year I would have made the midway cut off (63km, 11am) by two hours. But there's no point in thinking like that. I didn't run last year, I ran this year, and I wasn't fast enough. But while that fact will undoubtedly knock my confidence for a while, I've learned so much from this race which will be invaluable in the Jungle. From foot care to equipment, there's a heap of things I need to consider from first-hand experience. As well as a stark awareness I need the camaraderie and bonds my races so far have always given me.
Thankfully, I had a week of exploring beautiful Vietnam to process everything. Hopping on boats and bikes, moseying around islands, staring in wonder at temples, pagodas and caves, trying a host of different foods, and drinking a fair amount of beer, the gutting feeling of an uncrossed finish line faded somewhat.
I've got 8 months till the Jungle (which is a scary thought in itself). 8 months of preparing, and 8 months of clawing back that confidence. In the words of that incredibly determined runner: "Let's do this!"
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