#14 - When Ambition Meets Reality

It was always going to happen eventually.

The point where enthusiasm tips over into obsession. The point where the addiction starts making decisions instead of common sense. The point where you convince yourself that because you've done something difficult before, you can simply keep adding distance, keep adding training, keep adding challenge, without consequences.

Eventually, however, the bill arrives.

And sometimes the bill comes in the form of a very unhappy hip flexor.

How I Ended Up Here

To explain properly, I need to rewind almost a year.

I'd not long completed my first ultra marathon. Despite the event's organisational shortcomings, I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. There was something deeply satisfying about covering a distance that had previously seemed ridiculous. Naturally, once the soreness disappeared and the memories became slightly romanticised, I started looking for the next challenge.

Around that time I watched one of Rob's Been Running videos documenting the Rose of the Shires, a 54.5-mile ultra around Northamptonshire.

Fifty-four and a half miles.

That sounded like a proper challenge.

The route was advertised as showcasing the rolling countryside of Northamptonshire, combining fields, towpaths, farm tracks, villages and country lanes. A bit of everything, in other words. It looked scenic. It looked achievable. Most importantly, it looked like exactly the sort of stupid idea that appeals to runners.

I signed up almost immediately.

Fast forward to March and Blog 14 documented what was probably my toughest training block yet. A succession of marathon-distance runs, several ultra-length outings and a lot of 4:30am alarms eventually gave way to a taper featuring "just" 23 miles followed by 15 miles.

By that point I'd already realised something important.

The event itself wasn't quite going to deliver the experience I'd imagined.

After working out the likely finishing times, I'd concluded that completing the full distance would probably leave me arriving at the hotel ridiculously late, exhausted, broken and with little opportunity to celebrate with my mate afterwards. Since beer, food and good company form an important part of these adventures, I'd already decided that a sensible stopping point would be around 31 miles or 50km.

The challenge would still be real.

The day would still be memorable.

And there would still be time for beers.

The Hip Flexor Strikes Back

Unfortunately, my body decided to complicate matters further.

Since writing that previous blog, my hip flexor problem had returned with a vengeance.

Looking back, the cause wasn't exactly difficult to identify. I'd significantly increased my mileage, spent weeks running long distances and, perhaps most importantly, had completely neglected my stretching routine.

Brilliant.

By the week leading up to the race, the pain had become severe enough that walking was uncomfortable. Not running. Walking.

At that point I made a rare sensible decision and stopped running completely until race day.

Even then, my confidence wasn't exactly overflowing. I was so unsure whether I'd survive the opening miles that I supplied my mate with multiple bailout points around the course.

If things went wrong, I had options.

As it turned out, that wasn't a bad idea.

Race Day

The race itself began under surprisingly grey skies.

We'd enjoyed more than ten consecutive days of dry, bright weather, albeit accompanied by a bitterly cold wind. Naturally, the one morning that mattered arrived overcast. Temperatures hovered around 2-3°C once wind chill was taken into account.

Not ideal.

I was also surprised by how small the field was.

For some reason I'd imagined a couple of hundred runners milling around at the start.

There were only around fifty.

Then again, perhaps that's not surprising. Fifty-four and a half miles is a long way to run, even by ultrarunning standards.

The start was remarkably civilised. Nobody charged away. Nobody looked particularly keen to get going. Everyone seemed to understand that there was a very long day ahead.

I started conservatively because of my hip.

So did almost everybody else.

Almost immediately I could feel the injury grumbling away in the background, but the opening miles were into a cold headwind and I actually found myself running every climb simply to stay warm. Most runners sensibly walked some of the hills in order to preserve their legs.

I had a slight advantage.

I knew I wasn't planning to complete the whole thing.

The Good, The Bad and The Boring

Rather than document thirty-three miles in painful detail, here's the condensed version.

There were definitely positives.

The weather improved considerably as the day went on. Despite some runners commenting on how warm it had become at checkpoints, I never felt particularly warm. The breeze ensured that temperatures remained pretty comfortable throughout.

The checkpoint food was also excellent.

One particular highlight was a spiced ginger cake that was absolutely magnificent. As someone who generally isn't that interested in cake, that's about as high a compliment as I can give.

The marshals deserve a special mention too. Without exception they were friendly, encouraging and genuinely supportive throughout the event.

Unfortunately, there were a few aspects that simply didn't work for me.

The biggest issue was the course itself.

I know beauty is subjective and many runners may disagree, but I found large sections of the route surprisingly dull. There were a handful of attractive villages and occasional scenic stretches, but there was also far more road running than I expected. Many of the country lanes felt repetitive and uninspiring, while some road crossings bordered on sketchy.

Perhaps I'd built the route up too much in my head.

The second issue was the isolation.

With such a small field spread over a huge distance, the runners quickly dispersed. For the opening few miles there was some company, but after about mile eight I spent virtually the entire remainder of the event alone.

Not just physically alone.

Silently alone.

Nobody really talked.

Nobody seemed interested in conversation.

By the time I'd covered the equivalent of another marathon, I'd spent most of it inside my own head.

And that's not always the most entertaining place to be.

Finally, navigation relied almost entirely on technology.

Without my Garmin loaded with the route, I genuinely have no idea how I'd have completed the course. There was almost no signage whatsoever. To be fair, marking over fifty miles would be a logistical nightmare, but it did place a huge reliance on GPS navigation.

Mile Eight

The defining moment arrived exactly where my body had promised it would.

Mile eight.

Running down a fairly gentle hill, my hip flexor suddenly spasmed and effectively gave up.

I had to walk.

Then hobble.

Then walk some more.

For fifteen minutes I genuinely thought my day was over.

The pain was significant enough that reaching ten miles suddenly felt optimistic.

After that, everything became a battle of manageable chunks.

Five miles.

Checkpoint.

Stretch.

Painkillers.

Repeat.

That was the strategy.

Nothing glamorous.

Nothing heroic.

Just survival.

The strange thing is that it worked.

Slowly.

Painfully.

Miserably.

But it worked.

An Ultra and a Half

Remarkably, I made it to my planned stopping point where my mate was waiting.

Just under 33 miles in total.

Given how things had felt at mile eight, that seemed almost miraculous.

The concern, however, was whether I'd done some genuine damage.

A week later, the answer remains unclear.

Some days I struggle to walk without discomfort.

Other days I feel capable of running.

It's one of the strangest injuries I've experienced.

For now, the plan is simple: walk, stretch, recover and see what happens.

Patience isn't exactly my strong point, but it might be required this time.

Northampton, Beer and Recovery

Following the mandatory faffing associated with returning trackers and officially withdrawing from the event, we headed into Northampton town centre.

It was larger than I'd expected.

Admittedly, I'd never really had cause to visit Northampton before and therefore had no particular expectations.

Fortunately, I'd already researched the important stuff.

Beer.

Our first stop was Phipps NBC, a traditional brewery pub.

The beers were enjoyable enough. We had a cask blonde that was perfectly drinkable and a Black IPA that wasn't remotely a Black IPA but was still decent.

The standout venue, however, was Maule Collective.

Cracking atmosphere. Great taproom. Excellent beer selection.

My highlights included:

• Vault City – Very Cheeky (Fruited Sour) – 3.75/5
• Northern Monk – Heathen Heartbreak (Red IPA) – 3.5/5
• Polly's x Duration – 7th Birthday IPA – 4.25/5

There was also another beer which I completely forgot to log.

By that stage of the day, I'm choosing to interpret that as a positive.

We then moved on to V&B Northants, an intriguing place that operates as a French-style bottle shop by day and transforms into a beer and cocktail bar by night.

Two pints of Steady Rolling Man later—at a sobering £7.50 per pint—I was finally starting to appreciate the benefits of stopping at 33 miles rather than attempting another twenty.

Looking Back

Looking back, Rose of the Shires probably taught me an important lesson.

Just because you can enter an event doesn't necessarily mean it's the right event for you.

The challenge was real.

The training was real.

The injury was very real.

Would I do it again?

Probably not. Well… actually no, too boring.

Do I regret entering?

Absolutely not.

After all, every good story needs a bit of suffering, a few questionable decisions and some decent beer at the end.

Thankfully, this adventure had all three.

And I really do promise that next time I'll write more about beer and less about breaking myself. Although, knowing me, there's every chance the two subjects will continue to overlap.