Lamplight Sunlight

The things I miss the most catch me completely without warning. An incidental mention of daffodils in Regent’s Park can have me reeling with an acute pang of nostalgia. Suddenly I need a minute to just sit with it, because it is years of running through the beginning, peak and end of their yellow and white flowers. They were a constant in a swirling city of growing up and ultimately, moving out.

On a longer run, I’ll have also sought out the daffodils in Hyde Park. To get there, I’d weave through Marylebone, coursing down side streets whose particular architecture is particularly vibrant in that very particular spring light. It’s the white stone surrounded by warm red brick, smooth and matte against that blue sky. The sun is finally on a slightly higher axis so it hits the buildings like a desk lamp. By high summer, everything is drenched in a glorious glow but this, here, is bright and clean.

I’m thinking of one stretch in particular in Regent’s Park and other runners might know it: it’s between the end of The Broad Walk and the road up to the Inner Circle, just after the English gardens. I say other runners might know it because I am often - was often - navigating the narrow trail between the flowers while dodging a runner coming in the opposite direction. I like to think we laughed and delighted in it but I know that in reality, I grumbled at them for ruining a moment I loved and needed so very badly.

I moved out of London just after the daffodil season in 2023. I arrived in Wiltshire to wild garlic, cow parsley, lambs and nettles. I was overwhelmed and overawed by natural beauty. I breathed deeply, reaching forgotten corners of my lungs, sprinting and skipping through acres of what I had been craving for so long. Farewell harsh city, I don’t miss you at all, I thought as I swung over a stile. 

But 13 years of going through the seasons in a place does things to a person. I always find winter hard - mentally, physically, immunologically - but spring in the city meant getting back into the Kenwood Ladies’ Pond on Hampstead Heath, lazy (if chilly) walks home from Parkrun with my friends, all of us in woolly hats but yes, sunglasses. It’s the first time in months that ankles and wrists have been exposed to the sun as you warm your hands on a takeaway coffee or stretch your legs out with a pint outside a pub.

By its very nature, a city is full of people and every year I loved seeing a multitude of shoulders soften and chins tilt upwards as soon as the clearer, warmer days arrived. That will happen in the countryside too and, my god, I’m going to witness first hand all of the incredible new growth, smells and sounds that come with spring. I can’t wait. The trails will dry up and the light I run through will grow more dappled until it reaches full coverage in summer. 

But I won’t be part of the epic, mass sigh of relief like I was while living in a city that’s home to millions of people. I’ll see folk smiling on benches and closing their eyes beneath trees, of course. I’ll see their easy strides as they walk through the warmer days, a cautionary jacket tucked under one arm. I’ll see it all, but it won’t be with the same intensity. I won’t share that moment with literally hundreds of other people on the first real day of spring, the one when we wake up and collectively know we’ve turned a corner, we’ve made it out alive, we’ve lived to tell the tale. 

This first day of spring is the one where I most recognise the herd instinct inside myself. Sure, it is two runners fighting over the best line through the daffodils, hungry and greedy for beauty and life, but at least we’re in it together. 

My nearest city is Bath. It’s a pretty great city to have nearby, as it goes. I’ll go there for my lamplight sunlight against the buildings: Bath stone rather than London brick. I’ll get my fix of tourists and disgruntled locals. I’ll dither, weave, tilt my chin up in the breeze and yawn out those tired muscles at the back of my neck. 

And I’ll wonder how London is doing. It will never be far from my mind while I build new seasonal memories here. Because both things can be true: I can yearn for a home while I make one here. And after all, isn’t that nostalgia, that melancholia, that delicious jouissance part of what spring is about? It’s a time to let go. 

Centurion North Downs Way 100

 Centurion North Downs Way 100

5/8/23

Lydia Thomson - 3rd female, 38th overall

Let’s get this out of the way first: the weather was not ideal. It rained from dawn until gone midnight. The only solution to this was a good sense of humour. This isn’t about who can run the fastest, it’s about who can laugh the most heartily at their soggy pants.

Okay, onwards. 

My priority was to finish the race. My hope was to go under 24 hours. I roughly needed to do 10k every hour and a half. I knew I would go faster than that for the first 50k or so, which would be time banked for the back half of the race. I would make my own contingency for when the trail got sloppy, the vertical ascents were nature’s own slip ’n’ slide, and the night crept into my soul. As darkness falls and fatigue creeps, there are strange shapes in those woods. 

My God, it was beautiful. In May of this year, I had a shocker of a time failing to run the Thames Path 100 - that flat terrain couldn’t have been further from my comfort zone. But here, with vertiginous climbs, rolling, technical single track and sprawling fields, I was home. In the latter stages there are some uninspiring sections on single carriageways, but then you reach a McDonald’s on a roundabout where a woman asks you, “Are you runner-Barbie?” and you are confused back into joy.

I craved the uphills where others swore at them. When I realised I was easily picking people off on the ascents, I reassessed my goals. About 20 miles in, a woman at an aid station told me I was the 4th woman to come through. I smirked and said, “I’ll work my way up.” I don’t know where that came from. The words just fell out of my mouth. But a fire had been lit. Shortly before that aid station I’d seen legendary ultra runner and sheRACES founder Sophie Power running in the opposite direction. This might have been the kindling I needed.

But hey. 100 miles is a long time. Generally, you don’t turn the screw in any meaningful way until the end, unless you want to blow up. You’ve just got to hold strong.

The women’s race was really exciting. The top 5 women were close, but with Charlotte Fisher in 1st leading from gun to tape. The aid station at mile 71 - Detling - was probably where the race took shape for the rest of us. I changed clothes completely because I was soaked through and knew that I’d be able to do my best work if I felt fresh. There were about three other women in the toilets. I think we all clocked each other and got out of that aid station pretty sharply. I was monosyllabic with a volunteer who wanted to chat, and ate my cheesy beans on the move.

The woman who ultimately came 2nd - Rachel Gillings - ran an astonishingly smart race. It looks like she hung back until Detling, then put the hammer down. I left that aid station in 3rd and she overtook me when I went the wrong way shortly after leaving. But looking at the splits, that wouldn’t have made a difference. I had a colossally tough time in the mud but she bossed through it.

Cat Hicks who came 4th also paced her race really well. Her, Rachel and I didn’t overtake Megan Davies, who had been in 2nd place for the majority of the race, until mile 94. She was walking up a short incline and I knew I just had to run up it, overtake her (saying “well done!”), and keep turning the screw for the last 10k.

This is what is so fascinating to me about pacing 100 miles. You don’t know when you’re going to blow up, fade, peak or thrive. You can hazard a guess, you can use previous experience to a certain extent, but so much depends on the conditions, the terrain, how your fuelling goes, other people in the race and what’s going on in your life. 

Miles 82 - 92 were probably my lowest point. I employed ultra runner Devon Yanko’s mantra - “Tomorrow is Sunday.” I thought about my sofa a lot. I gazed up at the stars and the moon in wonder. Then the sky started to hue into blue - the sun was coming up. I thought this experience would make me feel hungover, but actually it did what everyone says it does - it gave me a new lease of life. The sooner I got to the end, the sooner I would be on my sofa. (I haven’t had one since 2021, hence the novelty.)

I needed to get pragmatic. Walking was too easy, and I wasn’t here to take the easy way out. I didn’t know how close the next woman was behind me (very close, actually), nor indeed how far ahead the next woman was (again, very close.) I decided to run for 4 minutes, walk for 1, and do this until I felt better. I only did it for about half an hour, but it got me through a chunk of the 10k I was currently running in. I was still within my target of 10k every 90 minutes. This fact made me feel better - I had clawed myself back. I could run continuously again. 

At the last aid station - aptly named “Dunn Street” - a volunteer met me on the road and asked if I was running straight through. Yes. Yes I was. “You’re moving really well. Almost there now.” 

The sun coming up over the next field was one of the most beautiful sights of the past 23 hours. Given the context, I would categorise it as one of the most beautiful sights of my life. I could see men further up ahead running gently between the crops. We were all so close to the end now.

I was absolutely caning it for the last 10k. Strava would tell you I was hovering around 6-6:30 minutes per kilometre, but it felt like my 10k pace. I was wheezing. I wanted to just empty the tank and see if I could catch the next woman. I had absolutely no idea where I was in the rankings, so I knew this could be my only chance to podium. But I was also rinsing it just for myself. This was my first 100 mile race, something that had been an impossible dream for a long time. 

The run through Ashford to the finish line went on forever, and I had to dial back my enthusiastic pace. I walked with a group of men for a bit and we dithered in the middle of the road, laughing. One of them pointed out the peaks of the tents at the finish line and I kicked into my final sprint. I turned into the Julie Rose Stadium, saw the track and saw the finish arch. I cried to see it. My previous experience of Centurion races had only been a DNS and a DNF, so getting under that arch was an epic feat in itself. 

300m. 200m. 100m. Finish. 23:06.19.

I don’t actually understand how I did this. Any of it. Not the distance, the execution, the sub 24 hours, not the podium. I don’t know how. I know in very practical terms, but not in any real way. It’s a very simple thing to do, but it is not easy.

After my Thames Path 100 experience, I’d been thinking a lot about Freidrich Nietszche. (Go with me on this.) One of the biggest stumbling blocks during that race was the pointlessness of it all. People often find Nietzsche to be depressing, but actually, his writing is incredibly life-affirming: he sees the meaninglessness of life as a liberating thing. This is something I had somehow forgotten. His oft quoted “God is dead” is not a void of negativity, it’s an opportunity. 

…I promise I’m not going to make this race report an in-depth philosophical analysis, mainly because I can’t remember a lot of it from my English Lit dissertation, but I do remember that Nietzsche’s writing on the Will to Power is about using that meaninglessness to create meaning; to be a better version of yourself every day, das übermensch - “the superman”. Running is the epitome of that. During the race, when my brain tilted towards pointlessness, I actively tilted it back this way; here I was, creating meaning with each step, being a better version of myself than I was the day before.

I will leave you with this, my favourite quote from Martin Heidegger’s writings on Nietzsche:

“Life lives in that it bodies forth.”

100 miles. One day.  

So Near and Yet So Far - Thames Path 100

Centurion Thames Path 100
Richmond to Oxford
6th May 2023

Goring was my precipice. I knew my body and mind could make it to 70 miles but that the rest would likely have to be traversed on spirit alone. Running 100 miles is a fierce and beautiful beast and if you have anything going on mentally or physically, the race will find it and force you to stare long and hard at it. It’s not about how far you can run, it’s about how long you can stare.

I was running my first ever 100 mile race. It’s a distance I’ve coveted for a long time and to be honest, the build up to this day had given me every reason to feel confident that I would make it. Training had been good, I was carrying a niggle but it was manageable and I had my nutrition and kit dialled.

The Thames Path 100 starts in Richmond in London and ends in Oxford. It is incredibly flat. As someone who prefers hillier courses, I knew this would likely be the thing to crush me, if anything did. (My reasons for choosing this race were for romantic ideas about running out of the city, not based in anything practical.) The weather wasn’t ideal either - we had wearying rain for a solid seven hours. But I’ve run an ultra in conditions like that before, and the front-runners still managed to achieve speedy finishes. It was miserable in places, sure, but we were definitely still moving. 

When things are lined up for success, it’s always something else that throws you, isn’t it. It’s always some massive curveball that you paid no attention to because you thought it would be fine.  

Henley aid station is at mile 51. It is a whisker over halfway. Hot drinks and hot food starts flowing. It is also where you get your first drop bag/crew. I stood under the tent, sheltering from yet another influx of rain, and sipped my second cup of tea. I said to one of the volunteers, “I bet everyone says this, but I don’t think I’m going to make it to the end.” 

“You’re still smiling,” he said. “You’ll make it.”

What he didn’t know was that I had spent the hour before I got to Henley crying. Proper big, ugly sobs, with a panic attack for good measure. In the weeks and months immediately preceding the race I had been out of my mind with stress, but pretending everything was fine. I was right in the middle of moving out of the city that had been my home for 12 years. I was leaving my friends and my freelance life. My brain just couldn’t endure anymore and I was suddenly blind-sided by it, knee-deep into a race I’d been training so devotedly for. I could feel whatever region of the brain that handles “tenacity” trying to fire and failing. No more, for god’s sake, no more.

That’s when the weather started to get me down. By the time we reached the muddier sections of the trail, the ground was bordering on a Cross Country vibe. The cheerful dispositions from the start had turned into solemn stares. People stopped returning words of encouragement. Or if they did, it was in the spirit of bone dry sarcasm. “Having fun?” “Yeah, time of my life.” 

I think some sort of mass hysteria set in, fuelled by the conditions: this year, the race experienced an unusually high number of DNFs. People just sat down on the trail and refused to move any further. Centurion ran three full minibuses through the night, driving people to the finish line.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom though, I promise. It was actually an extraordinary day with a lot of laughter. But in my private, lonely moments I couldn’t access the peaceful place that is my predisposition on a long run. This has to be because, quite simply, life had taken a toll on my central nervous system for the passed few months, and now I was asking even more of it. The central governor was choosing survival and I had no mental reserves to argue. It was pure science, or something very close to it. 

I knew I was going to drop.

I had started this race wanting to finish it. I’d dreamed of that finish line. But I’d dreamed of finishing strong, and I knew this was going to be a long-ass death-march. I just needed to get to my last drop bag.

I got to Goring aid station, mile 70.8, and what’s interesting in hindsight is that it took me some time to announce that I was finishing there. However, as it was flooded with the strong, neat, impressive women who had been close behind me, I didn’t like my chances of stacking up against them. Instead I marvelled at everyone in similar states of distress but with staggering verve in their bones. Thousand-yard stares would meet across the room and collapse into laughter. 

Volunteers and fellow runners passed me sweets and tea and rallied to try to get me to continue with them, to walk with them. “Have some hot food before you decide. Some cheesy beans?” It had been an hour and I hadn’t actually stopped my watch, but I could only smile and shake my head.

“We’ll see you out there.”

It wasn’t to be. I’m proud to have made it to my precipice, but I didn’t like the view over the other side. “This is where you’ll discover who you really are!” One kind runner said to me at Goring. “But what if I don’t want to know?” I replied, and the whole aid station laughed in sympathy. 

It was the truest thing I could have said. Too much had been changing in my life and it had all been uncertain and I’d felt like I was hanging by a thread to make sure it all happened. If I looked, if I saw what was really down there at the gnarly, sweat-soaked, dribbling end of my small life on this Earth, I might just give up on trying to change my life for the better. Ridiculous, but true.

“Finish this, and then you’ll never have to do another one again.”

The thing is, I really badly want to do another one, and that’s the only reason I let myself drop. I don’t just want to complete this distance, I want to compete at it, so I promised myself that there will be another time. 

In the days after the race, the encouraging condolences from friends came flooding in. It just wasn’t your day. You did the right thing. Knowing when to stop is even harder. You’ll come back stronger. It’s still a great achievement. I nodded and smiled weakly and said thank you, but to this day, none of these actually sit right. 

There’s nothing to come back from. I’m not physically injured. There was no demonstrable reason why this shouldn’t be my day. I still don’t really know if that was the right time to stop. It’s not the achievement I wanted, so does it still count, if it’s not an achievement to me? The crux of the matter is, I thought I was stronger than this.

I’ve moved home now. Things are peaceful. I get shivers down my spine as tension releases. I go for long runs in the countryside, grateful to have saved my body that extra 29 miles of pain.

But I’ll get it next time. Because I am stronger than that. 100 miles won’t know what hit it.

Synonyms for Scorched Earth

 Southern Athletics - Woodford, London.
13/8/22

It’s our final meet in the Southern Athletics fixtures. There’s talk of how close we are to winning in our division - to upgrading to five fixtures instead of four. We’ve all been made aware of who our rival club is in this pursuit, and everyone who toes the line has clocked their key competitor. But it’s due to be 32 degrees celsius. The surrounding grass is so dry it invites visions of wildebeests. The athletics track is exposing and exposed. 

In the 800m, I’m racing myself, our rivals and, as I (unhelpfully) learned the night before, the club record. On the start line my body is a mess. It knows what is about to happen: burning lungs, tingling hands and tasting blood. I kick my legs out and jump in the air, pretending none of those sensations are happening. We lean, we settle. The gun goes. 

I chase our rival club but I know I won’t catch them because I am already giving everything. Adjust. Dig. Go hard then push harder. The club record is all I’m looking for now. Embrace the fade and see it over the line. I’ve done it. I am a ghost on my own shoulder, but I’ve done it. 

Back at the bandstand, we are a gaggle of electrolytes, safety pins and musical chairs, all chasing the shade. When someone does well, we tell them how remarkable that is considering the conditions. When someone is disappointed in their performance, we tell them how well they did, considering the conditions. I deny the conditions profusely. I run the 3000m and focus only on effort. I’m pushing the pace as much as I know I can without blowing up. I finish. I am dizzy. I wait for my heart rate to go down. It simply doesn’t.

The bandstand is audience to a chorus of coughing. Lactic meets gasping meets debris. Our very lungs are parched. We kick up dust in sprints and jumps and there’s nothing to absorb it, only the moisture of our own mouths. A fortunate few are escorted to the start line with umbrellas. Seeing these rainy day accessories is jarring. It only seems to highlight the very thing we’ve been seriously, worryingly lacking.

A woman sits on the floor by the high jump with a t-shirt over her head. There is only a bottle visible beneath its neck, the contents lazily disappearing. We’re fading. Events are running late. We’re all pulling off astonishing performances, but it’s just gone on for too long. After my tango with heat exhaustion, I’m kindly encouraged to do no more. “It’s not worth it,” they say. But it is, we all know it is, because otherwise why are we all here?

It’s nearly 5pm and the light has chased us up the tiered seating until we’re all squeezed onto the back row. Our steaming shoulders are braced for impact until we are submerged. Now the race is really on. Win every last point you can before you run for shelter. Run for home. 

We take the win. 

I feel a strange grief that the athletics is over for another year. But there’s next year to look forward to, and in the winter when I’m gazing out of the window at yet another grey day, I’ll fondly remember these relentless, scorching laps of a blazing running track. When January descends into its quintessential endlessness, when time yawns before us so wide that you can see its fillings, I’ll wonder at how much a 58 millisecond PB meant to me. 

Pain is Information

Published in Like the Wind Magazine issue 31

Some runners say that pain is just an emotion. It’s information that you can use. Is it pain that feels like an injury? Or is it pain that you can push through? 

It’s been a wild few months for me with moving flat twice and the end of a very special, long term relationship. I’m dealing with the emotional pain on a conscious level, but I have more grey hairs. I have patellar tendinitis that has been lingering since this all kicked off. I’ve never had acne, but my skin is definitely threatening it. I need to lie down and close my eyes all the time. 

Moving to live on my own has been for the best, but like in a race, it really doesn’t feel like it right now. The pain is just information I’d rather ignore.

I underestimate how fragile I am at the moment and throw myself into situations that hurt me more than they otherwise would. I feel lonelier than ever, but I can’t keep lying down. I know it’s not a solution. I want to run because my day to day routine is spiralling and it brings back some order to my life. Eat, dress, run, shower, recover. The rest of the day can be a mess, but I cling to these things. And it makes me feel better.

I live in North London, so I think that I would like to run along Parkland Walk and around Finsbury Park. A dose of nature, and a route that doesn’t take too much thinking. If I have to think, I’ll panic. But I don’t want to be alone. I really, really don’t want to be alone today. 

It’s a Saturday, and I know that Parkrun is happening at Finsbury Park. I think some of my friends will be there, but even if they’re not, at this point, I just want to be around anyone. Give me any other human. Make me feel less alien. 

I time my arrival perfectly. A really kind volunteer marshal offers to take my bag for me. I find my friends, we say hello. I feel like myself. I feel like the version of myself I am with them, which is a happy and accepted one. I tell them I’m going to run faster, and will see them at the finish. 

I try to find people who are running at my pace. I’m gleefully overtaken by a woman with a pushchair. I see a lithe man who must be in his 60s, and I know his type - I know we’ll be close for the whole course. A younger man seems to really hate every time I overtake him, and he puts on a big sprint whenever I do, in order to stay in front of me. I did say I wanted to be around any other human, didn’t I…?

After a nice sprint finish to the end, I wait for my friends and we go for coffee. I have a small rant about the stuff on my mind, and they make me laugh. 

I miss. I miss. I’m so full of missing I think my eyes will melt. 

While I was running, I tried to convert the emotional pain into physical prowess. It didn’t work. “I am not enough. How can I. What am I doing?” Each thought made my legs feel so leaden I thought that the gasping, overtaking man really would beat me. 

But he didn’t. It turns out, this is pain that I can push through. It has not injured me indefinitely. I got a stitch after the third kilometre and I thought, “Well that’s it, I guess I’m just running with a stitch now.” As in running, so in life. 

The good news is, the stitch was gone by the end. 

Flat and Fast for Fun

I’m currently training for a 43 mile race, so perhaps unsurprisingly, “flat” and “fast” aren’t a big part of my training schedule. Long, easy miles dominate, sprinkled with hill and speed sessions. This is to build endurance so that my legs (and my brain) can hold strong for the duration.

However when a friend said she was doing a flat and fast 5 mile race in December, I couldn’t resist joining in. If there’s anything I learnt from training for a 50k race earlier in the year, it’s that I need to keep doing the fun sessions. When I’m out there on the race course hitting multiple walls after hours of pounding the terrain, I need to remember why the hell I’m doing it. During the 50k race, the best answer I could come up with was that I needed to get home somehow. This worked - I completed the race - but a very loud part of my brain believed that instead, I could just live the rest of my life under a nearby bush.

I want a better answer this time. 

So I signed up for the Perivale 5 mile race. I love running 10k and 5 mile races because it’s just long enough to use your brain, but short enough that you can really go at a lick. The kilometres arrive in digestible chunks. A quick bit of maths will tell you whether you’re going to catch up to that woman in the pink leggings (no). But will you overtake the man in the sunglasses before the end? (Yes.)

In the first two kilometres or so, I sat tight in the pace I knew would work, and paid no attention to anyone overtaking me. I smiled to myself. I had time. Most of all, I had experience. As the next few kilometres ticked by and I increased the pace - just a little - I started picking off those people who had flown past me in the beginning. Hey, people have different strategies. All I’m saying is that I know the one that works for me, and I knew I had a devastating kick in store for the final 600 metres. 

It helps that I didn’t care too much about performing well in this race. I really was just there for the fun of it. Running can be really hard. We put pressure on ourselves to do well because we care. But life itself has a lot pressure. Sure, training is a satisfying kind of pressure. But sometimes it’s good to run fast for the sheer fun of it.  

At the end of the race, I met a woman who had run so hard she threw up. She did well, but she looked a bit traumatised. I’m sure when I’ve finished a session of hill repeats I don’t look great either, but that’s just my territory at the moment, and this was hers. 

After this ultra marathon, I’m having a procedure on my cervix which will mean I will be out of running for 6 weeks. (Growth found in routine smear test = ladies, get your smear tests.) Realistically, this means I won’t be back up to speed before April or May. I’m trying to view this as well-deserved recovery time, rather than fearing for my mental and physical health. 

But if there is anything that I should have learned from sitting tight for 5 miles, or holding on for 43 miles, it’s patience. I think I mainly wanted to do this fast race because it will be a while before I’m this fast or strong again. I had such a brilliant time and I hope that memory will keep me going, through the ultra and beyond.