No. 14: The Viking Way

The Viking Way is a challenging 147 miles, from the banks of the Humber to the shores of Rutland Water. Apart from the Cathedral City of Lincoln, its route is almost entirely through thinly populated countryside, quiet villages and small market towns. It crosses an Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty, escarpments, fens, wolds and heathland on a meandering journey across Lincolnshire and Rutland.



Saturday 7th April, 147 miles

I'm barely holding it together as I reach Sewtern. Rounding a bend in the road, there's a small gathering of cars on a grass verge up ahead, and I guess it must be the Checkpoint. A couple of kids in bright coats run towards me, smiling and shouting. My superheroes. Joining me for the last hundred yards, Lightning walks beside me while Whirlwind holds my hand. Leon joins us with the words: 'You're doing great mate! Only 18 miles to go!'

A panic immediately ripples through me. 18 miles! I've convinced myself that the finish is 14 miles away. Hanging onto that thought. 14 miles. 3 hours.


'I thought it was 14 miles from here?' I ask. I'm pleading.


'No- bit more than that mate!' Leon replies.

Suddenly, I'm not holding it together so well.


I arrive at the Checkpoint to claps and cheers. But I'm sinking. The nausea I've been fighting on and off for the last 12 hours is pulling me under. People are talking, asking me questions, but the words are distorted, unclear, slow-motion. Someone hands me a plastic cup of coke. I take a sip and bend over double, dry-retching, my body rebelling. I rest my hands on my knees, try to be sick again. Tam's telling the superheroes to go back to the car - she doesn't want them seeing Dad like this.

I stay bent over for a while and then stand up straight. I take a few unsteady steps. Stop again. Leon's offering words of encouragement. I want to lie down. I'll lie down and everything will be alright. I can't lie down.

I start walking. Hardly a walk at all. Forward movement. One foot in front of the other.

I leave the road. Back on the track. 18 miles. I need to lie down.

One foot in front of the other. There's a desperation in my determination. But something else has entered the picture. A doubt. A small whisper of failure. For the first time since the start over 30 hours ago, I'm no longer sure I can make it to the finish.




I'd chanced upon The Viking Way Ultra in the middle of last year. My plan on tackling Lincolnshire's LDPs had started taking some shape, and as I'd spent an afternoon planning routes and a timetable for the year ahead, I'd stumbled upon the website. One part of me considered it didn't fit comfortably with my empty miling aspirations for the forthcoming year, but another part was immediately excited. At 147 miles it would be the longest single-stage race in the UK. Being the inaugral running of the event would also make it special. I'd met the Race Director, Mark Cockbain, a couple of times over the years and knew he'd put on a well-run, but gruelling, race. This wouldn't be one of the all-singing, all-dancing ultra fests put on by a big company, but a low-key, grass-roots event with serious athletes. It didn't take me long to decide to jump aboard.

I've never entered a race requiring you to fill out a 'CV' of your running experience before accepting you, but there's always a first. Entry would be limited to 30 competitors. Each one of those would have the experience to tackle the extreme distance, and be tough enough to be self-sufficent for 40 hours.

I listed my accomplishments. Although not a part of the ultra 'scene', I'd taken on several trips and challenges over the years and felt confident they'd show that I had the potential to hack it. A couple of days later, I received the e-mail confirming I'd been successful. I was in!

On logging back onto The Viking Way Ultra site, however, the excitement turned to trepidation. Looking through the list of entrants and their accomplishments humbled me. Every name was a stalwart of the UK ultra scene. Phrases like 'multi course record holder', 'UK representative' and 'double world-record holder' jumped from the screen. How would an unknown kid from Saleby measure up? There would be only one way to find out.

We arrive at the start area at 6.45am. Easter Saturday. I sup a last coffee, pose for photographs and listen to the pre-race briefing. I stand on the edge as 7.00am nears. Lively chatter runs through the assembled group. Everyone seems to know one another. I don't know anyone. I make a bit of polite conversation, check my pack, kiss Tam and the superheroes goodbye, and make for the start line in the shadow of the Humber Bridge. I'm about to embark on the longest journey of my life. I'm ready. The air-horn blows and we're gone.

I'd tinkered with a rough plan in the days before the race. Breaking the route into 3 equal stages, I aimed to start slow, reaching 50 miles in no faster than 10 hours. I'd incorporate walking from the start, hiking all the inclines and jogging everything else. I figured slowing over the next 2 sections would be inevitable. The 2nd 50 miles had little ascent, so I planned set periods of running and walking - 30 minutes on, 10 minutes off. I hoped the change of activity would help me maintain some sort of leg function, as well as breaking the distance into chunks that would be more manageable to tackle mentally. Having never run more than 100 miles in any one attempt, the 3rd section would be a complete unknown. My plan was just to keep moving. Hopefully I'd have the buffer from the 1st 2 sections to enable me to finish inside the cut-off of 40 hours. If I didn't, I told Tam, I'd hand in my race number and make my own way to the finish. Getting to Oakham library was the most concrete part of my plan. There was no doubt in my mind that I'd do it.

The early miles slip past effortlessly. I settle into a steady rhythm. Light feet, fast cadence. After starting well back, I'm gradually picking people off and I enter Barnetby, 14 miles in, just inside the top 10. Tam's parked by the roadside. I jog over to the fell wagon for one of Whirlwind's magic kisses before carrying on. The drizzly, overcast weather is condusive to running and I'm feeling great. The injuries I'd spent the last weeks obsessing over temporarily rear their heads, but then just disappear. I pass another 2 or 3 runners on the stretch to Caistor, and by the 2nd Checkpoint at Tealby, I know I'm in 3rd place. Amazing. Out of Tealby, I see the lead runners - Neil Bryant and Charlie Sharpe - a good half-mile in front. I make a vow to hang back, keep the pace easy. There's still a long way to go.

It's not for another half-hour until disaster strikes. Jogging along the road out of Ludford, I hear footfall behind me. Looking back, I see Neil and Charlie - they've overshot the turning, but are now back on track. Suddenly, I'm in the lead.

Throughout my running life, I've rarely led a race. It's a top feeling, don't get me wrong, but it comes with its drawbacks. Too much adrenaline leads to reckless decisions, a push in pace that can't be sustained, an early effort that throws previous careful plans to the wall. I'm determined not to let that happen.

We run as a three for a good few miles, before Charlie drops back slightly. Still sticking to my policy of walking the inclines, we travel efficiently through the hilly heartland of the Wolds. The pace seems easy. The company's good - Neil seems to share an outlook on running similar to my own and we pass the miles in conversation. All's fine - what could go wrong?

It's not long before we're almost at the 50 mile point, greeted by friends from the Club jogging alongside and shouting 'well dones.' I'd planned for a 20 minute stop at the 50 mile and 100 mile marks. These were the only points where we could get access to our drop bags. I'd make sure I changed into a dry base layer, pack my bag with gear for the cold of the forthcoming night stage, get a hot drink and scoff down my pre-prepared corned beef hash. All of these things would set me up for the next 50 miles.

But things don't work out. I sense Neil is keen to get off. I'm flustered. I can't squeeze all the kit I need into my bag. The hot coffee offered gets overlooked in the general busy-ness. I have no time to eat the food I know I need to. Before I know it, we're off. We run down the road for a few hundred yards before I know I've made a big mistake, and that I need to regain control of my own race or risk blowing-up and having to drop out. I tell Neil I need to sort my sack out - it's digging in uncomfortably at the base of my back - and encourage him to push on. He's looking composed and super-easy. It's a relief in many ways. I regain my run and make little effort to catch him. Coming into Horncastle, I know I need to get myself together. After the highs of only minutes ago, my rollercoaster has taken a real dip for the worst. I tell my assembled supporters that I have to let Neil go - he's a class above me, and by sticking with him, I risk losing it all. I walk a long section to the start of the Spa Trail, and now I'm back on it, determined to be sensible.

I settle into a routine of 30 minutes running, 10 minutes walking, and it isn't long before I'm through Bardney and heading into the night.

A few miles further on, as I jog towards Barlings Abbey, I notice a head-torch some way back. I'm being caught - that's for sure. Neil must be a good way ahead, I'm certain. As I run out of Fiskerton, I'm surprised to Tam waiting - we'd not arranged to meet here. With the time getting on - 9pm- I'd assumed she'd gone back home. When I pass, she tells me I'm the first through. Where's Neil? Maybe he got through before she'd parked up? But Tam informs me that she's been here for a couple of hours and there's no-one else gone past. Again, I'm in the lead.

I find out where Neil's gone a half-hour later as we're on the banks of the Witham, heading for the Lincoln Checkpoint. The head-torch that's been chasing me down for the last hour finally catches up, and it's him. He explains that he missed a turn, lost his bearings, but managed to see my torch in the distance and set off in that direction. We jog up the hill to the nearby Checkpoint - at 81 miles, just over half-way.

Although I've been eating little and often up till this point and have felt fine, a general queasiness creeps on me as I stand by the food table. I try and get a drink of tea down, but can't face any grub. This is not a good sign. As we get off, I tell Neil to go on and walk steadily towards the illuminated Cathedral, hoping the nausea will pass. Entering the outskirts of the city, I try a gel but am immediately sick. I cling to some railings near the Arboretum and puke my guts up. Afterwards, I feel a little better, but decide to walk through the city centre and restart my running/walking routine once I'm up South Common and out of Lincoln on the other side.

I know there's 3 people on my tail - we'd seen lights on the river bank at the last Checkpoint. Climbing up South Common, the lights come past. I don't know one of the guys, but recognise the other 2 as legends of the UK ultra scene - Pat Robbins, England representative for 24 hours and multi-record holder of the 145 mile Grand Union Canal race, and Mimi Anderson, a long distance phenomenon and world record holder for John O'Groats to Land's End. I wish all 3 good luck, feel some feelings of deflation, but buoy myself with the thought that being passed by runners of that calibre is no reason to be ashamed.

The miles to the 96 mile point pass in a blur. The nausea comes and goes and my pace ebbs and flows with it. My mood descends at one stage, but a phone call to Tam brings me back again.

I reach the Checkpoint with under 21 hours on the clock. I'm surprised to see the third runner of the passing group in the tent. 'My body's ok, but my head's gone,' he tells me. 'My head's ok, but my body's gone,' I tell him. I sit for a few minutes, sort maps and gear out for the final stretch and try, with only some success to get a No-Frills pot noodle down me. And then I'm up - shattered, sick, ready to go. I ask Cliff if he wants to come with me. He politely declines and I set off down the Ermine Road track, now in 4th place.

There's a meditative feeling about running in the dark. It's the small hours of Sunday morning. Gradually I'm jogging less, walking more, until I reach a point where my running action is slower than my walking action. I press on, hiking, the voices on my radio keeping me company, the head-torch giving me enough light, until the new day dawns.

With the light comes an uncomfortable feeling that I'm being chased down. Over the next 20 miles, it becomes an obsession. Every few minutes, I look over my shoulder, convinced that the pack is descending on me. Each time, there's no one in sight. But I'm prey for the hunters and I've no doubt I'll be captured soon.

A few miles further in and I'm walking along the banks of the infant Witham, near Marston. I'm feeling strong again, lost in concentration. The early morning stillness is broken by an excited shout. I look up and see a runner jogging towards me. Eventually I gather that it's Marvellous Mimi! By rights she should be miles in front of me by now. What's she doing here? We fall into step for a mile or so as she explains her nightmare of a morning. She'd gotten hopelessly lost and was on the phone to the Race Organiser asking for help, when I appeared. It's great to have a chat with a real person again after what seems like an eternity. I help her get her bearings on the map, point her in the right direction, and with much thanks she trots gingerly on towards the next village.

An hour later, as I leave Long Bennington and get onto the northern stretch of Sewstern Lane, I can still see Mimi up ahead. Even though I'm walking, I'm still moving fairly quickly. Part of me reasons that a big push over the last 30 miles might secure me 3rd place. Part of me tells myself I've got absolutely no resources left for any sort of a push, let alone a big one. More pressing, however, is the runner on my heels. Time and time again on the Sewstern Lane, I've looked back and seen the runner gaining on me. Dressed from head to toe in black, he's moving surprisingly quickly and sticking to the good, grassy ground in the middle of the 4x4 tracks. A mile from the A52 crossing, where I know Tam and the superheroes are waiting to greet me, I resolve not to look back again. I figure he'll pass me in no time.

Reaching the fell-wagon, it's so good to see my family again, but I can't let go of the thought of the 'ghost' runner catching me. I chat for a couple of minutes, say to Tam -'I'll just wait until the next guy runs through - he's been gaining on me for ages.' A few minutes later, he's still not through. I get off again, while Tam says she'll wait there until the runner comes through and meet me at the next road crossing.

Five miles later, we meet again. Tam tells me that they waited for 40 minutes and no one came past. I'm relieved in many ways, but also anxious. I saw that guy, not once, but every time I looked round. Am I going crazy?

Sewstern Lane is designed to break you. Coming at 110 miles into the route, it's an ancient road that has been decimated by 4x4 traffic, trail bikes and quads. Its steep inclines are rutted by tyre tracks and a thick layer of mud covers much of its length. Many parts are un-runnable. Some parts are hardly negotiable at all. It drains the rest of my strength and saps away any remaining positivity. By the time I reach Sewstern, the next Checkpoint, I'm barely holding it together.

In any good action movie, there's always a rope-bridge scene. The hero emerges from the jungle path, natives at his heels, to be confronted by a rickety bridge, suspended precariously thousands of feet above a raging river, hardly visible at the bottom of a sheer-sided gulley. He steps onto the bridge, breifly reassesses, then, looking back towards the advancing enemy, realises that if he's going to survive, he's got little option but to cross. As he clambers over, the camera goes to close-ups of ropes fraying. With each step, the framework of the bridge unravels. Until the hero takes one step too far. The fraying ropes snap, the bridge collapses, and the hero is left clinging to a solitary rung as he dangles by his fingertips against the walls of the cliff.

I'd stepped onto the rope-bridge as I'd entered Sewstern Lane, 20 miles ago. Even though I knew the rope was fraying, I had no alternative but to continue. The end always lays in front, not behind. Gradually, the bridge weakened. At Sewstern, it fell apart.

As I leave my family and friends at the Checkpoint, I'm dangling by one hand. But falling to the river below is something I dare not comprehend. Mustering unknown reserves of resolve, I continue. Between Sewstern and the banks of Rutland Water, I pull myself slowly to the top of the cliff. It takes an immense effort, but somehow I manage. At times I want to let go, fall in glorious flight to the water below. But I don't. I've come too far.

Finally, I'm waiting to crest the hill out of Exton where the sweeping panorama of Rutland Water will, no doubt, knock me for six. When I get there, there's a glimpse of water to the left, but it's hardly earth-shattering. I stand for a minute or two, force down a power bar and head down the hill, through the pub car-park, to the road.

Then something strange happens. I'm revived! There's a purpose in my step that i've not felt for hours. The finish is near. I'm almost done. I head out on the undulating path that leads to the Oakham road, and for the first time since the morning, I check my watch. Time has long since failed to be an issue - to finish inside 40 hours was my singular goal - but now I'm spurred on by the thought of finishing in under 35 hours. I push and push, and the minutes slip away.

Oakham awaits. Leon and Lightning meet me on a street corner and tell me the library is yards away. There's a small crowd gathered as I approach the finish. My family, Pat Robbins - the joint winner, Mark and his other half. I muster a final jog across the line and stop. I've arrived. The fourteenth footpath - the longest one- done and dusted.

                                                     *          *          *          *          *


The inaugral Viking Way Ultra saw 28 competitors set off from Barton. 75% of the field failed to reach the finish.

The race was won by Neil Bryant and Pat Robbins, running in together in an outstanding time of 29 hours 22 minutes.

Third place went to the incredible Mimi Anderson in 33 hours 52 minutes.

The other results were:
4th - Chris Rainbow, 35 hours
5th - Charlie Sharpe, 36 hours 23 minutes
6th - Paul Dickens, 37 hours 28 minutes
7th - Andy Horsley, 39 hours 45 minutes
  

No.13: The Wanderlust Way

The Wanderlust Way is a popular twenty mile circular route, starting and finishing at Bradley Woods, to the west of Grimsby. Originally called 'The Bradley 20', the route was renamed in 1990 to commemorate the life and work of James Neville Cole (1916 - 1989), who co-foundered the Wanderlust Rambling Club. 'Nev' devoted his life and energy to walking and ensuring the footpaths and bridleways in the area were well maintained, a legacy for future generations to enjoy and appreciate.
The route generally follows field edge paths, tracks and some minor roads through the Lincolnshire Wolds and takes in a number of stunning villages and hamlets.



Sunday 1st April - 20 miles

Blue sky beckons at the starting point, Bradley Woods.

Away on the good path.

Following WW.

Spring has sprung.

Peaceful isolation on the Irby track.

Approaching Beelsby.

Valley road to East Ravendale.

A beautiful day.

That burning feeling, Wold Newton.

Hidden church, Wold Newton.

Blossom.

Through the arch into another land.

Leaving primary colours behind.

Essence of The Wolds.

Right angles.

Tunneling out of Brigsley.

Black sheep.

The colour of Spring.

Full circle to Bradley Woods.



                                        *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *


Shortly before I set off for this run, I learned about the death of Micah True. Despite never having met him, I shared a deep affinity for the role that running had in his life. A couple of years ago, my brother, Dennis, travelled to the Copper Canyons in Mexico to run the Copper Canyons Ultra-Marathon and to meet the legendary figure he'd read about in 'Born to Run'. On returning to the UK, it was obvious that Micah had made a tremendous impression. In a brave move, he gave away much of his former life and started on a path that he considered more true to himself. Such was the impact that this humble, kind, selfless man had made on him.

As I ran around The Wanderlust Way this morning, I couldn't help but be uplifted by the arrival of Spring. The weather was glorious. The Earth was alive. The beat was strong. And yet my mind kept returning to Micah True. Through a deep sadness, I half-remembered a paragraph in 'Born to Run' that had left such an impression on me when I'd first read it:

' "When I get too old to work, I'll do what Geronimo would've if they'd left him alone," Caballo said. "I'll walk off into the deep canyons and find a quiet place to lie down." There was no melodrama or self-pity in the way Caballo said this, just the understanding that someday, the life he'd chosen would require one last disappearing act.'

Keep running, Caballo Blanco. And run free, amigo, run free.

No. 12: Silver Lincs Way - Ludborough South Link

The second of five circular 'link walks' along the Silver Lincs Way, the Ludborough South Link climbs to the ancient hamlet of Wyham and follows an undulating route to North Elkington, before returning to Ludborough via North Ormsby.




Friday 30th March - 14 miles

Start at St. Mary's, Ludborough.

Heading out.

Estate road to Wyham.

Lonely chapel.

Clear tracks through growing crops.

Looking back to Wyham.

Late afternoon on the chalk road.

Tractor tracks.

Fuel for the winter.

Reaching.

Leaves appearing.

Looking back on the climb to North Elkington.

Parallel Lines.

 One way to the valley.

Through the bumps, North Elkington.

 Grand Old Man.

Rising path to Fotherby Top.

Paradise?

A splash of yellow.

Broken smile.

On the verge of spring.

Empty miles.

Low light at Ludborough.

Beat

It's the beat that moves me. In the early miles, it was strong. It's rhythm flowed through me. But recently, a white noise has clouded its impact. A frantic hiss of static has made it fuzzy.


One foot in front of the other. The Sixth Statement.


The track through the forest is clear. I run on, but no longer with the previous skip in my stride. My legs are heavy, the weight of my own expectations pushing me down.


Emerging into a clearing, I look ahead and see that the path continues into a railway tunnel. Unquestioning, I continue. It's only when the light has gone that I stop. Stop running. Stand still. Turning back the way I've come, the light from the entrance is just a star in a black sky. Ahead of me, there's no light at the end of the tunnel. Uneasy, I take tentative steps forward. And then I fall.

I open my eyes after however long, but vision's no companion in darkness. I push myself back onto my feet, sensing something's different, but unable to pinpoint what it is. I've walked a few steps when I realise what's changed. The beat is gone.


Then a panic wells up. The beat is gone. And without the beat, I'm nothing.




Tam drops me off by the edge of the A52 out of Grantham. It's 11.30. The rain that has been constant for the hour's drive to this point has subsided somewhat, and the sky shows promise for a decent afternoon.

I've spent the last couple of weekends away from The Sixth Statement. The Viking Way Ultra looms in a couple of weeks - 147 miles with a time limit of 40 hours. 33 of the country's best-known ultra-runners, and me. The idea of a race during this year troubled me - it didn't fit neatly into the purity of my Empty Miling philosophy. But I figured it would be a good way of completing Lincolnshire's longest LDP, absolving me from setting up the potentially complicated logistics that a solo attempt inevitably involves. As a race, however, it's weighed heavy on me. There's a stubborn pride that constantly reminds me that I don't want to show myself up in the presence of such esteemed company. For weeks, therefore, I've knocked off the footpaths at the weekend and kept my mileage high during the week, leaving little time for recovery. Gradually, almost imperceptibly, I've run myself into the ground.

I get out of the car, sort out my pack and check my map. The last leg of The Viking Way from Woolsthorpe to Oakham - just short of 30 miles. For the first time this year, the prospect of a long run doesn't excite me. I'm beat.

I say my goodbyes and get off - slow, heavy-legged, lethargic. My troublesome foot seems fine now, but the ankle ligaments on the other are giving me some right stick. Every step gives a little pain.

More worrying, however, is my lower abdomen. A hernia operation a year ago fixed a problem on my left side, but the tightness on the right side feels all too familiar. Although I've been thinking as positively as I can, over the last two weeks, it's been getting significantly worse. The pain makes me wince in the first mile, but on I go, convinced that things will get better.

A couple of hours later, I'm on the track out of Sewstern. I stop and take off my pack, grab a snack. It's more an excuse to stop moving than a necessary pause for refuelling. Fifteen miles in. I'm done for. I don't know what's up with me. After a couple of minutes I get off, but, before long, I stop again. I take out the old phone and ring Tam.

'I'm about half-way,' I tell her.

'You ok?' she replies.

I moan for a bit and tell her I need to get going. And get going I do. But there's tears in my eyes. I don't give up, I tell myself, I don't give up.

I run for another mile, each step more painful than the previous one. I listen for the beat. Running provides the beat that makes my life work. It's a constant throughout the best and the worst of times. It enables me to make sense out of the glorious mess of our existence. But all I hear is static. Static, then silence. A black hole opens up in front of me. The beat is gone. And without the beat, I'm nothing.

I stop and take out the phone again. I hate myself. I dial Tam's number. I'm nothing. The phone rings, Tam answers. Without the beat, I'm nothing.

'I can't do it,' I tell her. 'You'll have to pick me up. It's beaten me. The whole thing's beaten me.'

I walk despondently along the road towards Thistleton. An overweight elderly woman in a day-glo running jacket jogs past me and smiles. I do my best to smile back.

I'm running through the year in my head. If I drop out of the race, I'll need to reschedule a Viking Way attempt late in the year - a big ask in months when the days are shorter. If I need an operation, like last year, my whole plan - my own statement - the crazy idea that means everything to me right now, will be in tatters. There'll be no way I can squeeze all the long runs in before the end of the year.

The fell-wagon appears and stops on the verge. I slide into the front passenger seat, feeling sorry for myself. We're on our way to a hotel at Ashby where Tam will run her longest race to date - a 20 miler in preparation for the Edinburgh Marathon in May. It's a big weekend for her - a massive weekend - but for the next hour I barely give her race a thought. The big part of me that is a selfish bastard has devoured every other facet of me. All I think about is my own misfortune. The thought of failure makes me feel sick. Without running, even for a while - without the beat - life just seems so less appealing.




I generally deal with things by considering the worst-case scenario before all others. Once I know I can handle that, I'm pretty good at picking up on any scraps of positive.

By dinner-time, therefore, as we waited in the bar for the rest of the Mabo Running Club mob to join us, a cloud had lifted and I'd cheered up a bit. It wasn't to be long, however, before heavy weather threatened.

The others arrived and someone mentioned they'd been held up, watching the FA Cup game in their room, Tottenham vs. Bolton in the quarter-final late kick-off. Had I heard? The match had been abandoned before half-time. A Bolton player had just gone down - no-one near him. A heart attack? A fit? No-one knew, but it looked serious. I hoped the news would be good when we returned to our room after dinner, but feared that it wouldn't.




I've a long history with the cardiology departments of my local hospitals. As a teenager, a couple of episodes of fainting whilst warming up for track races led me to my GP for a check-up. His findings caused enough concern to refer me immediately to hospital for an ECG. Their findings - a very slow heart rate, pronounced arrhythmia and an 'abnormal' ECG - led to me spending a couple of weeks on the heart ward. The suspicion was the presence of hypertyrophic cardiomyopathy (HCM). Whilst the heart walls become thicker and stronger with endurance training, thereby causing the heart rate to drop as you become fitter, with this condition the heart walls become dangerously thick and can impede the flow of blood through the heart. In addition, the muscle cells may rearrange themselves in a haphazard fashion, leading to the impairment of the electrical activity through the heart. It is this phenomenon that gives HCM its strong link to 'sudden cardiac death', especially in the young.

At the time - as a young man myself - I was unaware of its potential seriousness. Fortunately, scans and tests failed to confirm the condition, and I was released 'on watch'.

Over the years, I've made the procession from GP's surgery to cardiology department several times. Three years ago, a Holter monitor worn for 24 hours revealed that my heart regularly stopped for 3-5 seconds before continuing to beat. Whilst this was relatively common during sleep in patients with an abnormal heart rate, this also happened often during the day.

Two years ago, a monitor worn constantly for 4 weeks showed similar results. Stress tests showed normal function during exercise (my body, literally, worked better whilst I was running!), but the specialist was convinced of a condition - apical cardiomyopathy - which would almost certainly need my heart to be fitted with a pace-making device. Again, however, fortune smiled. A cardiac MRI scan showed no evidence of the condition, and I was let loose again.

I have an abnormal heart. I've lived with that. But the cause of my dodgy ECG can't be found. Maybe it's because I run a lot - the specialist said he could ask me to 'de-train' (stop running), and he could look at any changes in my heart function, but he was sure I would say 'no'. Maybe that has nothing to do with it.

For the time being, however, I'm healthy. I show no symptoms of dizziness, palpitations or anything else. I'm just abnormal. Maybe that's not so bad.

One thing that has distressed me, with this issue being so salient, is the regularity of 'sudden cardiac death'. A few weeks before I started my first teaching post, an apparently healthy 10-year old boy collapsed in the playground and died before an ambulance arrived. Sudden cardiac death. I worked closely with his dad in the years that followed and watched as, despite his bravery, the tragic incident slowly destroyed him.

It is with unsettling regularity that you read of such deaths. A healthy teenager just falls and dies. Now and again, if the death involves a highly-trained sportsman, it makes headlines.

I joke with Tammy that, as far as I'm concerned, I can't think of a better way to go - dropping dead whilst running - a perfect end! But my black humour carefully covers the helplessness I feel about possibly leaving my loved ones behind. Even worse - unthinkable, unspeakable - is one of them leaving us behind. (Both of the superheroes have been thoroughly checked out, with no evidence of any abnormal asymptomatic heart conditions.)




After a lovely night out with our friends, we traipse back to the hotel room. The headlines on the tele confirm my fears. Fabrice Muamba, a 23 year old Bolton player had collapsed on the pitch. After medical staff from both participating teams had worked frantically for many minutes, they had failed to revive him. Whilst still administering CPR, the medics had stretchered Muamba to a waiting ambulance and rushed him to the London Chest Hospital where he was being kept alive in intensive care. His condition was described as extremely critical.

I watched the 24-hour news channel late into the night, long after Tam and the kids had gone to sleep, and, on waking, the first thing I did was turn the tele back on. There was no news, and, from experience, I knew that in situations like this, no news was usually bad news.

Whilst the day should have been one of celebration - Tammy completed the race in a time she'd not even dared dream of - my pride in her and my own good spirits were smothered in a funk made from the worst of the weekend. Giving up, exhausted, disillusioned, injured on the Saturday. And Fabrice Muamba. Poor Fabrice. I just couldn't get rid of it.




In the silence, I stagger forwards. A part of me longs for dark places, the end of the tunnel, the end of it all.

In a moment, I'm there. I reach and touch the wall in front of me. I push hard and harder still. A single brick dislodges and light shines through. I press my face against the gap and look beyond. A lonely beach.In the distance, an elderly man walks a dog whilst holding a little boy's hand. Over the water, dawn is breaking. There's no-one else. It's the place to which I can never return. Yet its remote beauty is spell-binding. Like pressing my ear against a shell to hear the sound of the sea, I make an effort to listen to what's around me. Waves breaking against the shore. The hiss of a morning breeze. The clitter-clatter of rope against metal on a dune-side flagpole.

And something else.

Gentle, hardly-there, but unmistakeable.

The beat.

I listen again. Really listen. Tune in. I turn towards the direction it's coming from, the bright star in a black sky, the entrance to the tunnel. Then, before I know it, I'm running towards it.

I'm almost at the entrance before I realise what's there. I slow to a walk and take it all in.

A handful of people. A picnic. Shouting and laughter.

I watch as Tammy makes hot drinks on the portable stove in the back of the fell-wagon. My mum fusses around, helping her, getting in the way, her heart always in the right place. My sister, Alli, leans against the side of the car, eyes closed, head back, taking in the sun while she talks lazily to her husband, Mark, sat sensibly in the shade with a Leeds United cap covering his face.

Behind, friends old and new, messing around, squirting water pistols, sunbathing, reading books on laid-out blankets, playing frisbee.

In front, Our Kid's winding up the superheroes. Whirlwind responds with a slow, steady sweep of an outstretched hand. In a blink, she's bound him up in a force-field made of tornadoes. Lightning finishes off the attack with a kung-fu crane kick faster than the spped of sound. A sonic boom echoes across the valley. When it stops, everyone pauses. As one, they look towards the skinny kid in running gear walking out of the dark railway tunnel.

I'm walking towards them. My friends. My family. My life. A sonic boom echoes across the valley. Once it stops, everyone pauses. They look my way. Smile. And when they do, the beat is deafening.




There's certain times in your life when you are forced to stand back and reassess. Sometimes, you get so caught up in your own schemes that nothing else matters. You forget how to listen. When a plan goes wrong, a silence descends. It's in these times that you have to tune into the things that enable you to survive, the most important things that you could never, ever, do without.

Sure, running's important. My Sixth Statement is important. But not in the grand scheme of things. As I take my last breath, I doubt I'll reminise about the empty miles I have or have not run. No, I'll think of the people I shared my life with and feel blessed. I'll listen to the beat for the final time and remember the ones who created it.




In a North London hospital, a young man's life hangs in the balance. Football has become unimportant.

A 3 year old boy holds his daddy's hand and knows only that he's poorly and asleep.

A young woman looks upon the man she's chosen to share her life with. Her fingers nervously fidget with the ring he gave her on Valentine's Day, when he asked her to become his wife.

A mother and father sit by their son - the son who is worshipped at the Reebok for his outstanding work-rate and genuine humility. The son who is so desperate to make his parents proud of him that, in spite of becoming a footballer - a carreer looked upon with low regard by his father, he is currently studying for a degree in accountancy rather than promoting underpants and aftershave.

Not your typical footballer.

My prayers are for Fabrice Muamba.




                                     *         *          *          *          *          *




It's a few days since I wrote this blog.

After Fabrice Muamba collapsed during last Saturday's game, it has emerged that medics tried, unsuccessfully, to revive him for 48 minutes before he arrived at the London Chest Hospital. After that, it took another 30 minutes before Muamba's heart started beating again, having received 15 shocks. For nearly 2 hours, Fabrice Muamba was, in effect, dead.

But the beat didn't stop.

Although the player remains in a serious condition, his progress has been remarkable - a miracle. A statement released today - Friday 23rd March - by his father and fiancee, Shauna, reads: 'Even though Fabrice has made great progress over the last couple of days, he is still in intensive care and still has a long period of recovery ahead. He has asked that you please keep him in your prayers.'

It is reported that when Fabrice regained consciousness, he was anxious to have the answers to two questions. He could hear the beat.

He asked if his young son was ok. And he asked if Bolton had won the game.




And me. I've taken an easy week. I feel revived. An appointment with the GP on Monday seemed to confirm an iguinal hernia. An appointment with the surgeon at the end of April will confirm or deny this for certain.

I'll do my best in the Viking Way Ultra. It's all I ever do. My Sixth Statement will continue - maybe, but maybe not, in its original form.

But this is all by-the-by. Tomorrow, whilst Tam's away in Spain, I'll be enjoying a new day with my superheroes. We'll take the bikes down to Mablethorpe North End's lonely, beautiful beach and cycle across the promenade to Sutton-on-Sea. We'll have mugs of sweet tea and a sandwich in a seafront snack bar. We'll play in the dunes, splash about in the cold water. Later, we'll watch a DVD with Saturday night treats of chocolate and popcorn. And at bedtime, I'll read them 'Storm Boy' - a favourite story, before kissing them goodnight.

It's then, perhaps, that I'll become aware of the beat that's been thumping all day. It's then that I'll thank God that I've started to listen again.

Sweet Tea

I come to a stop at the side of an old wooden shed at the point where The Viking Way crosses the main road into Bardney. I try, in vain, to find some shelter from the torrential rain that's been falling for the last 5 hours. Taking off my sopping running gloves, I blow on my bare hands, hoping to invite feeling of some sort. I briefly consider pressing on, but, almost immediately, dismiss the idea. I briefly consider packing in, finding shelter in the nearby village centre and waiting for my lift to arrive. But, again, the idea is dismissed. I don't give up.

I experience just a moment of clarity and realise that I have to take some action straight away or things are going to go wrong. I've put myself in some challenging environments in the past, but I've never felt like this. I'm not in danger - I'm in rural Lincolnshire - I'm metres away from someone's house. However, retreat is not an option. I'm shivering uncontrollably. I've never been as cold. I've no idea what hypothermia feels like, but I can't be far off.

For miles, I've been delaying stopping, putting on extra kit, preferring to pick up the speed, keep moving, get to the end more quickly. Now, I know, I've got no choice.

I reach up for the plastic buckle on my pack's chest strap. My fingers won't work. Press the plastic arms together and the buckle will release. It's something I've done thousands of times before - doesn't require thought or strength. But, try as I will, I can't do it. My mind looks back to school day changing rooms, trying to do up shirt buttons after a winter's games lesson. I concentrate, try again, but to no avail. The shivering's taking me over - violent shudders shaking me under their own will.

I put my hands down the front of my tracksters, finding a warm spot between my thighs, and press my legs together. God knows what a passer-by would think if they saw me now!

After a couple of minutes, I pull out my hands and try the chest strap again. Eventually, it clicks open.

I focus my attention on the waist strap now. I've got to get the pack off. Frustration errupts in a string of expletives as I just can't release the plastic buckle. After an eternity, I manage to loosen the strap, buckle still closed. I wiggle my arms free from the shoulder straps and slide the pack down, stepping out of it like a lady steps out of an evening dress.

Picking up the pack, I grip the zip tag between my teeth and manage to open it up. I rest it against the shed wall, trying to keep the contents as dry as possible. It's sheeting down, and the morning breeze has mutated into a late afternoon howl. The day has shed its sheeps' clothing. I stand, afraid, helpless, before a hungry wolf.

I focus on relaxing. My shoulder and back muscles ache from the relentless shivering. I pull my Kamleika jacket over my head and throw it on top of my pack. Then I take off my Merino base layer, leaving my torso naked to the elements. I wring it out, a desperate effort to get rid of its wetness, and put it back on. Digging in my pack, I pull out a technical tee-shirt, put it on. I pull out a lightweight Pertex jacket, put it on. I pull out a beany hat, stick it on my head. I pull out my Goretex over-trousers and ease them over my tracksters. I've no more spare clothes left. A pair of mittens would be heaven, but I never thought to put them in. I pull my Kamleika back over my head, edge the zip to the very top with my dysfunctional fingers and yank the hood over as far as it will go.

I'm unbelievably cold. I need to keep moving. The hungry wolf is snarling. I grab my phone from the front pocket of my pack and manage to press the buttons that allow a call to the only number I've got stored in there. Home.

'Dialling...HOME,' it says on the screen. For a moment, I'm there. It's warm. I'm lying in the bath. I'm drinking a mug of sweet tea. And, in that moment, the wolf pounces, knocks me down, overwhelms me.

'Hi Babe,' Tam answers. 'You ok?'

I feel the saliva from the wolf's jaws.

'Come and get me. I can't go on. I'll be in the tea-room in Bardney village. This weather's done me in!'

I say these words only in my head. I look at the wolf and there's a gleam in its hungry eyes.

I push my feet against the wolf's stomach and press as hard as I can. It falls backward, startled. I sit up quickly, now on the front foot.

'I'm ok, ' I say. 'I'll be at Fiskerton in less than a couple of hours. I'll meet you at that spot I showed you on the map.'

It's hard to talk - the cold's even making speech difficult. The gloves and backpack go back on in a flash. I've little time to lose. I'm almost ready to get going when I hear the angry growl. The weather has deteriorated further - to the point where no sane individual would possibly want to be out in it. I know that and, somehow, in spite of everything, I can't help but smile. I look to the muddy track ahead, and then back at where I've come. I stand, afraid, before the hungry wolf. Afraid, but no longer helpless. Not quite. And then I'm off.




Empty miles are usually run in glorious technicolour. Every shade, every nuance is noted, celebrated. You're 'in it.' Eventually, however, as hours pass, that splendid emptiness starts to be filled up by thoughts that carry only negativity. You become aware of your tiredness. You notice every pain, niggle, sore muscle. The colour of your run starts to seep away. As exhaustion creeps upon you, you may not notice that your world has become monochrome. Black and white. Just two choices - keep going or stop. Go a little further and the black and white merge like messy paint into a single shade of grey. Things are easier now. There are no decisions to make. The idea of stopping simply drops away and you're left with one action that becomes unconsciously automatic - put one foot in front of  the other.




An hour and a half after leaving the wooden shed, I arrive at Fiskerton. One foot in front of the other. One front in front of the other. A mantra. A rhythm. Running down a minor road, a car horn wakes me from my hyponosis. I look up from the ground in front of me and realise I've nearly run past Tam and the superheroes waiting for me in the pre-arranged lay-by.

The wolf's made its best efforts. The plunging temperature has turned the rain into snow. The hard-pack of the field paths has softened into unrunnable soup. For a time, it almost had me. Now, it will have to find its sustenance elsewhere.

Tam's got a laundry bag ready in the passenger side of the fell-wagon. I take everything off, dump shoes and clothes into the bag and, standing naked, towel myself down. I pull on a pair of old pants, a jumper and my down jacket and flop into the seat. I'm ravenous. I wolf down a sandwich, a few squares of Mars Bar cake and a chocolate milkshake. Then, while I drift in and out of sleep, Tam drives us all home.




I'm easing myself into a hot bath a bit later. I'm glad that one of the most miserable experiences of my running life has come to an end. I feel done for, totally knackered.

Whatever had possessed me to come up with the idea in the first place? A 'big double' weekend on The Viking Way - 80 odd miles over the Saturday and Sunday to recce the route before I make a non-stop attempt on Lincolnshire's longest Long Distance Path at the start of April. Bad ideas always start out as good plans, I console myself, as I lay back and the soapy water swallows me.

Tam comes in. 'Cup of tea. Two sugars,' she says, places the mug on the side of the bath and goes back downstairs.

I close my eyes for a while, allow myself to fully enjoy my moment of relaxation. Then I reach over for the mug. Sweet tea. My most valuable training tool. I hardly drink it during the week - coffee's my thing - dash of milk, no sugar - but, after a day out running, there's nothing like it.

I take a sip and almost immediately the grey starts to separate. Black and white multiply into muted shades, and by the time I've swigged half a cup, my life is back in technicolour.

I finish the tea and reflect on a great weekend. 42 miles from Barton to Donnington-on-Bain on the Saturday. Gorgeous late-winter sunshine, the delights of the Nettleton Valley, feeling tired but strong at the end of a long day.

Sweet tea's running through my veins. I'm smiling again.

But yesterday wasn't a touch on today. The stunning scenery between Glouceby and Fulletby. The seclusion of the Spa Trail between Horncastle and Woodhall Spa. Battling against the weather from start to finish. Never seen so much rain! The snow as my only companion for the last hour. Rarely have I felt so alive. It seems such a shame that one of the most incredible, hardcore experiences of my running life has come to an end.

Tam pops her head round the door. 'You ok?' she asks.

I nod.

'You want anything?' she goes on.

I shake my head.

But as she closes the door and starts down the stairs, I realise that such a memorable day deserves celebration.

'Tam!' I call out, and I hear her footsteps coming back to the bathroom.

She comes in and looks at me, eyebrows raised.

'Any chance of another cup of tea?'