These
things always seem like a good idea at the time ...
I
left work on the Thursday and cheerily said to my colleagues, “Wish
me luck. I’m running 75 miles this weekend.”
A
chorus of ‘good lucks’ sounded.
“But
why?” Asked someone.
“Well
... I paid to do it.” I said. I got a sea of blank faces in return.
Seems they thought I had to run these events as some sort of
punishment. Like some form of community service that involved
chafing, eating massive amounts of snacks and wearing the skin off my
feet.
But
there wasn’t really any good reason. Sometimes it’s just nice to
think, “What shall I do this weekend? I know ...”
Saltmarsh
75 is a 2-day run in Essex and follows the entire coast of the Maldon
District from South Woodham Ferrers to Salcott. It’s 75 miles, with
an overnight camping stop at The Star Inn in the village of Steeple.
The race route follows the public footpath along the top of the sea
wall coastal defences as much as possible so is extremely flat (the
highest point en route is 15meters above sea level) and navigation is
very straightforward ... just keep the sea on your right.
Pre
Race ...
I
almost didn’t make it as far as the A14 when an old man in an
ancient Jaguar pulled out in front of me on a fast A road. In panic,
spotting my car at the last minute he slammed his brakes on blocking
the road. Managing an emergency stop from about 50mph, I’d pulled
the car to a halt about 6 inches from his front wing. Can I claim
shock and go home and eat all the snacks I’d packed for the ultra
on the sofa instead?
No
Sarah. Woman up and get going. Angela is depending on you and there’s
75 miles to run.
Luckily
the rest of the drive was uneventful and I found the hotel which was
10 minutes from the race start. Ate a quick dinner in the local pub –
order to eaten within 20 minutes - and then had a massive bag of
popcorn in bed and watched TV. Is this what life is like for
non-runners? Watching TV in the evenings, sitting and eating snacks
and relaxing, no worries about which toenail will drop off next or
whether the dodgy foot will hold up under 75 miles? At least the
actual running was simple. Right foot, left foot ...
I’d
wanted a leisurely bath as was unsure what the facilities would be
like at the halfway point but I had to be content with a shower. Took
off the last pair of knickers I'll be wearing for 2 days and looked
at my feet. 90% of my toenails are pink. This is unlikely to happen
again for a long time. I took a photo as proof.
 |
| This little piggy went to Saltmarsh... |
I’ve
never been so close to the start of a race before – South Woodham
Ferrars was only a 10 minute drive away. It would have been
completely runnable if I didn’t have crazy amounts of kit to
carry...
I
knew I’d overpacked when the chap next to me passed a tiny pop-up tent
and a small rucksack to the race organiser to put in his van. I tried
to pass up my massive crate to him but failed due to the weight. He
looked at me dubiously as he lifted it for me. “Hang on,” I said.
”There’s more.” I went back to the car and returned waddling
under the weight of a massive bin bag filled full of sleeping bags,
blankets, kit and food and duct-taped shut.
I
hadn’t meant to pack this much or even pack a bin bag – it was
for pulling over the crate to keep the things in it dry but my
packing style of “Throwing-Things-I-May-Need-Into-Kitchen” meant
the crate had overflowed and I’d started filling up the bag as
well. I certainly wasn’t going to win any prizes for best packed
kit or stylish luggage ...
Start
...
The
start was at Marsh Farm which boasted a children’s soft play
centre, pigs, clean loos and a proper cafe. None of the ‘crouching
over a portaloo’ and ‘hanging around the burger van’ like
usual. Registration was very easy. I was number 6. I like having the
low numbers as it looks like I’m a good runner. I’m not. My
surname is just near the start of the alphabet.
Saw
a few familiar faces which was lovely. Paddy who I’d run part of
the Stour Valley Marathon with, Angela who had talked me into this
and who had decided a 2-day 75 mile run would be a good first ultra.
Palm/forehead. But why do things by halves? Kevin Payne who was Race
Director of the Stour Valley Marathon I’d liked so much and
Simon Moran, an MdS finisher who was jealously guarding his swanky
new Garmin from me as I’d expressed a magpie-like longing for one
of these previously.
Trying
to be organised, I’d warned the others when we had the 10 minutes
race brief warning, then promptly got stuck in the loo queue. It’s
like a race law. As soon as there are only minutes left before a race
start, I’m automatically desperate for a wee. It’s like a
Pavlovian response but without the drooling.
As
this was a children’s farm, the loo doors were worrying very low –
almost like saloon doors. As a result, the queue started from about 6
feet away. I didn’t like to queue too close in case I unwittingly
made eye contact with the occupant of the stall. That would be
off-putting for everyone.
After
finally exiting the loo everyone had vanished which is never a good
sign. I sprinted to the race briefing which was just beginning ...
and full of dire warnings. Avoid the adders, assume the stiles are
all broken and we’ve got these brilliant rescue vehicles. Ok. So
even for the accident-prone me, I could manage even more interesting
injuries than usual. But at least I’d be rescued quickly.
 |
| The race briefing ... "Don't piss off the adders" |
We
were set off by the Mayor of the town and I was very impressed by his
neckful of bling. How many miles would we have to run to get a medal
like that?
Despite
it being October, the sun was very warm and the forecast rain and
storms seemed unlikely to appear. There weren’t even any clouds
threatening on the horizon. Running down the rough farm track, it
felt as though we could run forever.
We
held a nice steady running pace at about 9:10 min/miles. And the
occasional stile to climb over stopped us from running off too fast.
We all had a nice chat at the stiles as the field hadn’t yet opened
out so it was a chance to check out everyone else’s race vests and
trainers. Some of these runs are like a fashion parade with all the
new kit although lycra and rubber tends to feature heavily. Like a
fetishists fashion parade then.
As
per the race briefing, a lot of the stiles were very broken and
damaged. With the amounts of moving wood and rusty metal, it was like
an obstacle race but with tetanus and splinters.
However
it was also a lovely peaceful run. We passed through the Blue House
Farm nature reserve and just to throw in a bit of temptation – the
500 year old Ferry Boat Inn. However, I had to be content with my
hydration tablets and water bladder as Angela wasn’t stopping.
We
chatted to the others around us and I tried not to run too fast or
eat all my snacks in the first hour. However I DID have the chocolate
bananas open at the first checkpoint. They were melting due to the
warm day so it seemed sensible to eat them all at once. Got to be
sensible, right?
CP1
We
were at the first checkpoint very quickly, no need to navigate as the
field hadn’t yet spread out and there were plenty of runners all
around us. The checkpoint was a gazebo in a car park with flapjack
bars, jelly babies, crisps, malt loaf and ginger cake and with the
soon-to-become familiar Saltmarsh 75 quill flag We had to give our
numbers to the marshal, pick up the instructions for the next section
and then we were free to go.
 |
| Angela at checkpoint 1 |
We
grabbed some jelly babies then I accidentally started something I’d
keep up at almost every checkpoint. I started running the wrong way.
I was redirected by a marshal. Sigh.
This
stage contained the first of only two ‘hills’ on the whole route.
Known locally as Creeksea Cliff, we walked the 15 meter climb –
while eating more snacks, of course – and ran down the other side
with aeroplane arms and the appropriate noises. If there are only two
hills, we can’t waste one.
Despite
this, Angela insisted on walking over the speed bumps as apparently
“they definitely count as hills”. I had to agree. On a course
with a massive 15m elevation above sea level at its highest point, we
had to be careful not to tire ourselves out on the hills. Erm ...
speed bumps.
After
this, we were back on the sea wall, grassy underfoot and flat. The
scenery was silent and lonely and we passed Bridgemarsh Island in the
estuary and the quiet village of Creeksea. Creaksea is supposed to be
the place that King Canute tried to push back the waves. He may have
been unsuccessful but at least he tide.
The
first 13 miles went past in a blink. Wouldn’t it be nice if we
found it all so easy? We’d be finished before we knew it.
 |
| This ultra running is SO easy! |
CP2
The
2nd
checkpoint at 13 miles was in the middle of the town of
Burnham-on-Crouch. And coming into the checkpoint, we received a
hero’s welcome. I checked behind to make sure I wasn’t being
shadowed by a celebrity. Nope. This was for me! AND I’d only run 13
miles. The applause is going to be deafening when I’ve done a
marathon distance!!
 |
| Me at checkpoint 2 ... |
I
re-taped my toes, Angela had some snacks – these two points weren’t
related - and we set off. As this was supposed to be a difficult
section we decided to do a 12 minute run, 3 mile walk strategy from
the start so we didn’t end up tiring ourselves out before we’d
even hit halfway.
This
part from Burnham-on-Crouch to the Bradwell Othona Community was
apparently the longest and the toughest section of the event. It was
over 13 miles long, remote and very exposed so even a moderate
easterly wind could make this section extremely challenging.
It
had been described by Robert MacFarland in his award winning book,
Britain’s Wild Places, as ‘…the darkest, loneliest place in
Essex’,. It certainly felt it.
 |
| Ooh! Sea wall! |
Everything
about this section sang monotony. We were about 10 metres above the
sea on our grassy wall and to our left was fields or marsh. Nothing
else. It was certainly lonely and desolate. After a few miles of this
I felt desolate. Another 62 miles of this? I’d go absolutely
bonkers. In fact, twitch, gibber, I wasn’t entirely convinced I
wasn’t already. Gibber, drool.
Holliwell
Point, at the mouth of the Crouch is said to hold the wreck of
Darwin’s Beagle. It would have been a joy to see anything at this
point – a shipwreck would have been extremely exciting. Even a bush
would have been exciting.
All
that was here was a grass bank. A grass bank uncomfortable to run on.
The wind was blowing at us. My plantar fasciitis was hurting. My head
was bored. I was grumpy. There was sea on my right and identical
fields on the left. Nothing else. Occasionally there was a stunted
bush.
I
took some photographs. They ALL looked the same.
Every
now and then we’d see another runner or walker in the distance. The
sea wall was completely flat but cambered to the left so your left
foot was always slightly lower than your right foot. It would also
twist or turn – but at right angles like crenellations on a castle
so the landmark or runner you’d seen might be half a mile away in a
straight line but 3 miles away with the twisting of the sea wall.
You
could view the run as a religious experience. It would be very
similar to how I’d expect purgatory to be. Frustrating, monotonous
and difficult. And never appearing to get anywhere. That was the
tough part, it just didn’t feel as though you were moving forward.
Once
for an exciting hour a German pillbox came into view. We watched it.
It didn’t do anything. We passed it. Eventually.
 |
| A bush AND some concrete. You're spoiling us ... |
We
came to a section of concrete – huh! Something different to run on!
- and there in the distance, was something strange ... a gazebo! The
local running club, Dengie Hundred Runners had set up a water stop.
They’d had quite a challenge stopping their gazebo blowing away but
had managed to hold it down and were providing an additional aid
station to the Saltmarsh competitors. We love you Dengie HundredRunners! The marshal there told us it was the longest uninhabited
stretch of coastline in Britain. I could well believe it.
We
carried on running. The concrete changed back into the grassy track
of before and the landscape merged back into what it had been before
the water stop.
The
Saltmarsh 75 had been described on the website
as “An exciting walking / running challenge along the Essex Coast.”
Really? REALLY? It has been a challenge with walking and running
along the Essex Coast but it has been the very opposite of exciting.
I couldn’t think of much that would be less exciting. It was the
outdoor equivalent of running on a treadmill.
Then
the sideways rain started.
Then
the hailstones started.
We
did a quick change into waterproof kit. Despite the warmth of the day
earlier, the storms had been forecast so we were prepared. Despite
this and due to the wind and lack of shelter as the sea wall was
completely exposed, everything quickly became drenched.
 |
| Sea wall and rain. |
We
were now cold, bored AND wet.
I
was not happy. I was VERY not happy. And I had a dilemma. How do I
tell Angela I want to drop out of the run? How do I tell her that
there is no way I’m doing day 2? What’s the point? I can be bored
in the warm and dry.
I
started sulking. Luckily because of the wind and the rain, it was
impossible to tell.
I
was still sulking though.
Huff.
There
was a high point though. For one brief moment, we thought the rain
almost stopped. We looked at each other and started cheering. It
immediately started raining again.
Stupid
weather. Stupid running. Stupid sea wall.
Huff.
The
race instructions directed us off of the sea wall onto the track
beside it for the last little section before the checkpoint. However,
the wind and rain was coming from the landward side so there was no
respite except for when we passed one of the low bushes which briefly
stopped the battering. Two figures were coming towards us through the
wind and rain and they turned out to be Angela’s friends, Rob and
Lorraine, runners themselves who held the Guinness World Record for
the fastest 5k dressed as a camel!
CP3
They
ran with us into checkpoint 3 at Bradwell Othona Community at 28
miles. This was next to the Grade I listed St Peters Chapel, the
oldest intact Christian chapel in England, dating back to 654AD. It
would have been lovely to have a proper look but we were cold, wet
and miserable. We were in the middle of an old World War II fighter
plane training area and the remains of artillery and aircraft
paraphernalia could be seen at low tide. And probably when everything
wasn’t obscured by pelting rain.
 |
| Checkpoint 3. Smile then I can go back to being a grumpy cow again ... |
I
tried to run the wrong direction out of the checkpoint. Only I can
get lost on an ultra that goes in one direction along a sea wall.
Sigh.
I
got turned around and then we left the checkpoint (again but facing
the right direction) and the shelter and then stopped, standing in
the rain waiting for Angela to finish re-arranging her kit. A shed
stood open opposite us, displaying a collection of wellies. Dramatic
amounts of wellies. Told Angela we had better start moving as our
rustic Essex cousins had obviously been killing and eating hikers
lost on this path for years and saving their wellies.
She
gave me a strange look, but we started moving again. I then
remembered Angela was from Essex.
I
put some music on to blot out the fear of being eaten and my Salomons
being stored in a shed and kept running. Head down, left foot, right
foot, rain down neck, Left foot, right foot, rain down back ...
We
could see the windmills of Bradwell’s wind farm for miles and
miles. The view never changed. They were just part of the background,
getting slightly bigger, then slightly smaller.
 |
| Windmills |
Bradwell’s
decommissioned nuclear power station sat on the horizon for a long,
long time. It was 2 buildings and 2 cranes in symmetry as though the
decommissioning had to be done on each building at exactly the same
time. It was strange seeing what looked like an office building that
wouldn’t look out of place in London, sitting on the desolate and
windswept shore. As we came closer, the wind got even worse and we
made the decision to move off the sea wall, down onto the track down
by the side of the power station.
Big
mistake. We immediately found some mud.
Not
normal mud.
Nope.
This was Saltmarsh 75 mud. Like normal mud but WORSE.
As
we walked across it, it stuck to our shoes in layers, taking us back
to the days of the Spice Girls and their platform trainers. We were
the miserable, ultra running, muddy equivalent. If Pop had the Spice
Girls, ultra running had us. The Mud Girls. No-one said it was
glamorous.
We
plodded on through, each foot getting heavier and heavier. Angela and
I looked at each other. We were at least 5’8 by now. This was
getting ridiculous. There was nothing around to scrape the mud off
though so using the weeds on the banks we managed to reduce our
height to abut 5’6. Still taller than normal, but with less weighty
shoes.
We
staggered onwards.
Another
mud patch. Maybe if we RAN across it, it wouldn’t stick so much. I
was obviously suffering jelly baby poisoning by this point as it
seemed a really good idea. Needless to say it didn’t work although
according to the noises Angela was making, it looked hilarious from
behind.
I
found a stick and started scraping the mud off again. Head down, left
foot, right foot ...
CP4
We
came off the sea wall to find the checkpoint at Bradwell Waterside,
the pavements and roads feeling unfamiliar under our feet. We came
into the checkpoint to discover there were only red and black jelly
babies left in the jelly baby bowl. Maybe they were starting some
sort of union against having to run in the rain. Sign me up jelly
babies. Sounds good to me. Didn’t stop me eating them though.
Getting to a checkpoint and out of the wind raised both our spirits
and separated our run ahead from the long trudge earlier.
We
picked up the instructions for the next section and got out of there.
Just one more checkpoint to go. On automatic, we started to take a
wrong turn out of the shipyard following what we assumed to be
another runner in the distance. Assuming no-one else would possibly
be out in this weather. Apparently there *were* other idiots out in
this weather ... and we were following one. About turn ...
This
section was described as “Another peaceful section ...” I was
starting to get suspicious of these sort of descriptions and decided
to interpret this as “Another section encompassing miles of sea
wall and absolutely sod-all else ...” My suspicions were correct.
We
navigated the sea wall, dripping with rain and with water in our
ears. We finally turned off it to get to the final checkpoint and
under the shelter of the two walls. Two walls but it was blissful to
get out of the wind and rain.
CP5
We
were both soaking wet and cold but when the marshal at St Lawrence
asked us whether we were going to continue it surprised us. Yes of
course we were carrying on. We only had one more section to go –
why would we stop here? Besides it’s raining like mad here, blowing
a gale and our tents and warm dry clothes are still 3 miles away.
Angela’s
husband David had come to meet Angela and asked us if we wanted hot
chips from the chip shop when we reached Steeple, the finishing point
of day one. This sounded AMAZING and a good reason to plod a bit more
quickly towards the finish. We weren’t going to drop out now, but
we were pretty miserable and just wanted to complete the day.
Later
we found out that 33 people had dropped out by this checkpoint. Out
of a starting list of about 150 and with only 3 miles to go.
We
turned off the sea wall. Finally. We would have cheered but were too
wet, cold and grumpy. And wanted to save our cheering for when we got
our chips.
We
got to a footbridge with bar across it at about knee height to stop
the livestock crossing. After 35 miles of running Angela couldn't
work out how to get across it either. She wasn’t happy. She
couldn’t lift her leg that high and wasn’t going to hurdle it. We
solved the dilemma by ducking under one of the side railings.
If
she hadn’t liked the bridge, she was even more unimpressed when she
saw the massive stile the other side.
We
were warned by our route instructions that the trail turned right
into a hedge over a stile but it as was well hidden they’d try and
mark it with tape. We trotted, stumbled and grumbled up the lane.
Angela remembered recce-ing this section and missing the stile as it
was so hidden. Every time there was a dip in the hedge we checked it
out. We found fly tipping sites, rabbit holes and barbed wire. But no
stile. Huh. It must be REALLY well hidden.
We
grumbled our way up the lane, dreaming of hot chips. Still no stile.
Then
we rounded a corner, and there ... surrounded by orange tape,
bedecked by glow sticks like a drag queen version of a hedge was a
gap and a stile. We climbed over it making the appropriate creaking
noises and ran up the grassy strip into some woods, where a string of
light bulbs hung like fairy lights to illuminate the dim woods.
We
came out of the woods and on our left was a hall, the finish of day
one. As if to rub it in, we had to run the length of the fence all
the while being able to see the checkpoint and the finish without
being able to get to it. We reached the gate and got to the
checkpoint.
Day
one running complete.
Angela’s
husband was there with the promised chips and we were offered a big
plate of beans by the lovely marshals. Bliss.
The
only problem was that we were now getting very, very cold. We were
soaked through and we weren’t moving to keep warm any more. Some of
the transported kit had arrived at the village hall but unfortunately
my crate wasn’t among those there. Luckily the finish was
approximately 2 minutes walk from the pub at which we were all to be
camping overnight.
They
don’t believe in complicated addresses in Essex. The pub address
was: The Star Inn, The Street, Steeple.
Unfortunately
my kit wasn’t at the pub either. My tent was but I wasn’t
convinced that erecting and getting into a cold tent in wet gear was
going to do me any good. Went back to the village hall and spotted
some space blankets on the table. Wore my space blanket and
pretending I was an astronaut briefly took my mind off the cold.
While pretending to be an astronaut I spotted my kit in the back of a
van! Hooray!
Dragged
it out and got into queue for shower when my name was called for a
sports massage. I took my shoes and socks off and climbed onto the
massage table (easier to write than to do) but while having my
massage I spotted that I’d left a manky plaster on the floor. Nice,
Sarah, nice. Luckily no-one trod on it and I managed to scoop it up
and bin it after the massage. Ultra running. Such a glamorous sport.
Massaged,
I wandered into the toilets and got back into the queue for the
shower. At least it was warm in here. I was warm, I was wearing a
space blanket like a cape and I could stop running. Things were
looking up.
I
finally got my shower ... which it would have been generous to call
lukewarm, but it was perfect. The mud and rain water disappeared down
the drain and I was dirt-free.
Warm
dry clothes on, tent up and a massive plate of chilli con carne,
chips and rice and a half pint of cider at the pub. I had a full
tummy, warm feet and the rainwater was drying up from my ears. Things
were looking up. Maybe I would start Day 2 after all ...
38.96
miles
7
hours 59 minutes.
