We pulled into the car park in the shadow of the Humber Bridge, a blanket of cloud smothering the sky. Red lights stretching south on its monolithic towers. A vocal cat mewed loudly, rubbing up against my leg as I prepped my bag. I sat on the stone, the physical marker for the start of the route, envisioning myself mirrored at its partner 79 miles away. And before I knew it I was off, running along the bank of the Humber. The tide was low and I took to the beach, slowly bouncing between rocks and muddy pools before a narrow woodland strip. The light didn’t take on any special quality. It didn’t pierce through the canopy in radiant beams, nor did it gently light the understorey, no gentle haze. I padded into Melton, keeping an eye out for Dad. He was parked a little away from where I expected, but this was a consequence of the Google route I had prepared for him.
I didn’t need anything yet; this was just a touch base stop and as quickly as I had arrived, I was heading out again. My mind wasn’t filled with much of excitement, more of a dread, but I kept my chin up. These early stages had the most interesting landscapes, predominantly patches of woodland and plantation set within a verticality so you first saw them, and then were within them. It gave the route a sense of progress.
A notable section was Little Wold Plantation, A gentle climb skirting the edge of woodland, arching canopies providing some respite from the wind. A couple dog walkers were present here, some of the few people I would come across on the trail. This lead past Egg Plantation and into the valley of West Hill Plantation, a taste of the suffocating valleys that were to come. Steep banks lined with trees. The air humid and still. A long section of road running with another maps error on my part for Dad led to an aid stop about 500m from where I’d planned. But what is a Lad & Dad outing if everything goes right? I wish the next section had gone my way.
The .gpx file I had plotted followed the road to the right, but a fingerpost indicated that the road or the gorgeous looking bridleway could be taken for the route. It was an obvious choice. Heading along the old rail route I was bounded by blossom and bird song, a strong stride. Glancing down at my watch I noticed the path diverged further and further away from where I needed to be. I zoomed out. There was no path to re-join me to the route which cut sharply right from my direction of travel. I had a choice. Hop over the fence and cover the 100m or so or add another 1km to get back on track. Looking back, I wish I had added the kilometre. I stepped over the fence and ran through a field. I then hit a stream, drenching my feet. This then led to more barbed wire which I crawled under. What followed nearly made me give up there and then. Knee high nettles and bramble. Legs stinging, I carried on, stumbling into the road like the final survivor of a silver screen slasher. It was only a couple of hundred metres until the next supply stop. Under my breath I was cursing my blinding idiocy.
Leaving the Fiddle Drill, a man who had been chatting with my dad called me an animal. Maybe for attempting something of this calibre with such little preparation, especially in volume, would qualify me for that title, or maybe an animal would have the sense to see some of the futility. I wasn’t even halfway. I laughed, though another seed of doubt had been planted in my mind amongst the creeping weeds. I was a marathon in with 2 more to go. I let that sink in, maybe a little too deep.
An older man was parked in front of dad, but old would only be fair to be used in reference to time. There was nothing old about him. Pulling on a tight-fitting cap and lacing his shoes, the muscles of his calves sat tight against the skin. This turned out to be none other than a previous record holder for the Hardmoors 110 among other super long-distance trails, Neil Ridsdale. What a chance encounter. We had a brief chat and I gleaned as much information as I could from him.
Here are where the cracks that had begun to show became fissures, then chasms. Training with someone has its benefits. I hadn’t really considered the physiological benefit of having someone with you whilst running. You talk about anything and everything and provide one another with support. I of course got this when coming into an aid stop with Dad, but these were short and fleeting, leaving my mind hours on end alone. Running is fun. It is a meditative process which allows us to break down the complexities of life into manageable pieces, and then put those pieces into perspective. Like sleep, we experience, process, and retain. It is fundamental for a healthy life. However, what happens once we put everything neatly on a shelf? In my case, I don’t think I’ve tidied up right, I take those boxes down and have a rummage. I’ll put this over there, I think these fit better here, and before I know it there’s a mess. Somehow everything no longer fits neatly back. I begin to cry. Not in a self-pitying manner. I might be moving slower than expected, but I have not done what needs to be done in preparation to deserve to be faster. Instead, it is a mourning of the loss of enjoyment of my movement. Each step wasn’t bringing joy anymore.
Earbuds firmly planted in my ears; The Wise Man’s Fear provided much needed relief from the dark thoughts that had been polluting my mind. Kvothe’s story has never ceased to pick up my mood and I imagined myself in the Commonwealth, striding down the King’s Road. The company of voice and story keeping me motivated and moving. Each aid stop coming and going, some more than I had planned as Dad intercepted me along the route. A pot of porridge sat on the ground for me in Thixendale. I began to mechanically eat. I emptied out my pockets of used gels and threw them in the bin, along with my earphones. Thankfully I had a flash of realisation I was holding something other than rubbish and checked the bin. Nestled in the corner were my earbuds. Away I went again.
I wasn’t physically exhausted, there was still energy to spare and movement was still coming to me. I had just lost the enjoyment. My goals may be arbitrary, but if there isn’t fun then I don’t see the point. You may think I have written like it was all doom and gloom, yet the photos and Instagram stories from the time made it seem like I was having a good time. In all honesty, from setting off that morning I was in no mood to run and am amazed I got as far as I did.
Stats
Elapsed time: 12:13:24
Moving time: 11:26:19
Distance: 88.52km
Elevation: 1882m
Average Pace*: 7:45/km
Average Speed*: 7.74kmph
Calories: 7845
Average HR: 141bpm
*from moving time