This is not just marshalling. This is Centurion Running Ultra-Marathon Marshalling.

If you’ve ever stood in a high vis vest at a road crossing, cheering on runners and holding back irate motorists whose Sunday morning expedition to the farm shop you have personally ruined, then you are familiar with the highs and lows of marshalling a running event. I’ve volunteered for many roles at local races and Parkruns; runner registrations, goody-bag distribution, finish funnel timing and, of course, marshal. So far I’ve avoided “loo queue monitor” but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.

Volunteering for Centurion Running is different, mainly because Centurion Running is different.

This is my second season of being around Centurion Running events. Mostly I’m just a hanger-on; it’s my husband David who actually runs ultra-marathons. He first did the North Downs Way 100 in 2012. At this point I merely chased round after him in the car with words of encouragement and snacks, feeling welcomed by, but slightly in awe of the troops of Centurion folk who knew way more about what was going on than I did. My first encounter with Centurion’s Race Director James Elson was when I arrived, bleary-eyed at the finish in Wye after a long night of car leap-frog to wait for David.

“Hi, I’m crewing for David Barker,” I offered, by way of an introduction.
“How’s he doing?” James enquired.
“I don’t really know.” Brilliant. I have no idea why he didn’t sign me up as a volunteer there and then.

There followed another couple of races where I crewed for David a bit more convincingly, falling into a routine and looking a bit more like I was on top of things.

In August last year we volunteered together at the South Downs Way 100. This was our first time volunteering for Centurion and we manned the aid station at Jevington, along with Mark Craig and Richard Tickner. Jevington is the last checkpoint on the SDW100 and over a long shift I’m pleased to say we achieved our “nobody drops at Jevington” ambition. We also ate a lot of cake and drank a lot of coffee.

Volunteering is a lot like running in that you get to the end of the event swearing “never again” and 48 hours later you’re sitting in front of a computer tapping in your credit card number and entering another race. It probably took me a little longer than 48 hours (and I didn’t need a credit card), but once David confirmed he was entering the Autumn 100 and didn’t need me to crew or pace for him I decided to volunteer again. I don’t like being left out.

Organising over 70 volunteers for an event as big at a hundred mile race is quite a task and when the fiendishly complicated preliminary schedule came through from Nici I saw I had quite a long shift. Swyncombe from 2 pm to 8.30 pm, and then Reading for the night – 9.15 pm to 10.30 am on Sunday. Yikes! On the plus side, I’d been paired up with Mark again, and there was a spare slot at Swyncombe which I quickly persuaded my friend Beks to fill.

The logistics of David getting to the start by 10, getting the children to their grandparents and getting myself to Swyncombe when we only have one car were a bit complicated too. In the end, David drove himself to Goring, and I did a couple of complicated taxi shuttles before being picked up by Mark, who lives quite nearby. To add to the complexity, the kids’ grandma was busy until mid-afternoon, meaning I had to leave them with just their grandpa for a few hours. If you can put out of your mind the things that two lively children can get up to in the care of one elderly blind person, this is absolutely fine.

Nici had allocated me the roles of Aid Station Manager and electronic timing at Swyncombe. After only one shift as a Centurion volunteer I was really honoured. And kind of scared. One of the other aid station managers on the A100 was also a newbie, and he had emailed the manager list asking for advice. The response (and I quote) was “Just don’t be a tit. It’s a team effort.”

Don’t be a tit. Right. But actually, the volunteers at Centurion are all so committed and experienced you could probably be a massive tit and the aid station would still run like clockwork. The responsibility of electronic timing was very real to me though. Aid stations are told that the only job they must do is manual timing; it’s the most important thing. I get that. But I’ve been the person constantly clicking “refresh” on a live tracker often enough to know that the electronic timing really matters. It’s how you know your loved one is on schedule/still moving forward/not dead. So I took it quite seriously despite my cold hands and a pretty ropey data signal and while it may have appeared that I was updating my Facebook status or checking my Twitter timeline when people arrived at the aid station, I was in fact trying to keep the tracker up to date.

Communications between the race director and the volunteers are done via Whatsapp, so throughout the day you get constant messages about runners who didn’t start the race, those who have dropped, and a range of other vital messages. Just after 2.45 pm as we’d finished setting up the aid station at Swyncombe, there was an excited message from Nici asking if we’d seen a runner yet. This is unusual. Nici is quite strict about keeping messages to a minimum, so pretty much drops and medical emergencies only. Of course, when James flew through in the lead we realised what the excitement was about. I know James likes to personally thank as many of the volunteers as he can on race day. What a great way of doing it.

Between then and 7.15 pm we catered for a steady stream of runners, all of whom came and went, with no one needing to drop out at that point in the race. Once or twice the aid station got pretty busy as groups of 6 or 7 runners arrived at the same time. But the team all fell into an easy pattern of roles, welcoming and logging runners, filling their bottles, offering them food, encouraging them on their way. The Centurion website describes the aid station as being located “in a farmer’s field”. It was indeed a little rural in terms of facilities and I was glad of the prospect of spending the night shift in the relative luxury of the Waterside Centre at Reading.

The rest of the Swyncombe volunteers were finishing their shift once the aid station closed, so Mark, Beks and I tidied up our stuff and said our goodbyes before setting off for Reading. We were a bit earlier than we needed to be when we got there and so headed off to find some food. Note to self: check Trip Advisor BEFORE diving into Reading’s Mr Cod just because you fancy fish and chips. Suffice to say the batter was tougher than the plastic forks we were given to eat it with.

Paul Ali was the aid station manager at the Reading aid station, the turn point on leg 3, 87.5 miles into the race. We got set up and ready to greet the lead runners. For Reading I’d stolen an idea from one of the aid stations on the South Downs Way 100, and asked people via Facebook for requests for signs that would motivate them personally at this stage in the race. I was a little bit overwhelmed with requests, and spent quite a few hours slotting images into PowerPoint alongside people’s messages to themselves. And so the stairs that everyone loves to hate became festooned with runners’ encouraging notes.

It was brilliant to see people’s reactions to their signs and other people’s. I hope they helped.

And so the front runners quickly came and went through the aid station, including David who had made up a few places since the last timing point, meaning he arrived before I expected him and before I’d brewed the special Tanzanian AAA coffee he’d requested. Several crew/wife points lost. Refuelled with a hastily brewed cup of coffee and a few other goodies, he left the check point in 5th position, just behind Peter Kaminsky who had arrived after him but turned around quickly and left a minute or so earlier.

The stream of people arriving at the aid station began to get steadier, including a number of runners and crew I’ve got to know from other Centurion events and via social media; the aid station was getting busy. One of the advantages of volunteering at the event while David was running was not having time to worry about him. The second advantage would become clear over the next hour or so.

By this stage in the evening Beks had left Reading and headed to Goring to help out there. She texted to tell me that three runners had finished and they were expecting David soon. Sarah Moorwood first surely, I replied, certain that David wouldn’t have caught her, given her storming pace and his injured foot. And then came a picture message with the words “Sub 16!” I couldn’t believe it. He had run the last X miles at under 8 minute mile pace. Volunteering had meant that I couldn’t run as a pacer with David for his last few miles, a role I’ve enjoyed at both the South Downs Way and Thames Path 100s. But given that I’m a plodder and 8 m/m is pretty much flat out for me, this was definitely advantage number 2. Imagine the crew/wife points I’d have lost if he’d missed his sub 16 because he was waiting for me to catch up!

The next few hours were spent doing everything we could to help the runners. David’s colleague Rich Stewart arrived looking pretty chirpy and making a bee line for my gin and tonic lemon drizzle cake. People came in to the aid station in a huge variety of physical and mental conditions. Some were mentally strong but struggling with blisters or feeling the effects of the cold night air; we taped their blisters and poured them hot drinks. Some were physically ok but fighting various demons and nagging self-doubts; we gave them words of reassurance and hugs.

The rest of the night had three highlights for me and I hope those involved won’t mind me mentioning them. The first was seeing Susie Chan appearing at the top of the aid station steps to check in while husband and pacer Shaun headed in to get her some tea. She was keen to get on so didn’t stop, confessing to feeling a little “emotional”. She looked like she needed a hug but was back off down the steps so quickly I didn’t have chance, so I did the next best (but slightly embarrassing) thing and for some reason shouted “love you” as she trotted off. I’ve only met Susie a couple of times and I have literally no idea why I said this. I’m blaming the long night. Sorry, Susie!

My next favourite moment was meeting Paul Reader, one of the Centurion Grand Slammers (running all four Centurion 100 milers in one year, the Autumn 100 being the final race). He’d requested a sign which was on the steps. One of his crew had earlier taken a photograph of it, so I guessed it was important to him. It turned out it was important enough to inspire him to give me a huge hug and a kiss. And to go on and complete his grand slam. Brilliant stuff, and made me glad I wasn’t the only one prone to spontaneous public displays of affection.

Then there were a few people in the aid station who looked like they were really struggling. One guy in particular sat down and was looking pretty low, head in his hands, breathing hurriedly. I sat next to him and tried to get him to slow his breathing, chatted with him a little and then got him a few bits of food and a drink and left him alone for a while. I noticed him phone someone who I assumed was his wife. I have no idea whether she was giving him kind words of sympathy and understanding, a pep talk, or a bollocking for waking her up at that ungodly hour. Anyway, he finished the call but still looked in a bad way. David had by this time arrived back at the aid station to rest and wait for me to finish, but was generally making himself useful talking to some of the runners. I nodded him over in the guy’s direction. I don’t know what David said to him but soon after, the guy got to his feet and got himself ready for the last 12.5 miles. I gave him a big hug and I and the rest of the crew applauded him out of the door. I later found out that he was Iain Bareham, and that he went on to complete his first 100 mile race.

And that’s why Centurion volunteering is different. You work as part of a huge team of like-minded and committed people, with the safety and success of the runners out on the course at their hearts. You see people hit amazing highs and deep lows. Some of them won’t finish the race for a number of reasons, but most of them will, and in a few cases it will be your intervention that made the difference to their result. And if that isn’t thanks enough, they and the race organisers will unfailingly be respectful and appreciative of your efforts.
I love it and I can’t wait for the next one!

My thanks to: Nici for co-ordinating us all and putting her faith in me as aid station manager; Mark Craig for keeping me awake and entertained throughout the long night; Beks for her company and texts from Goring; Natasha and Jon Fielden for their updates on David’s finish; David for running without me and then coming back to Reading to wait for me; my fellow crew members from Swyncombe – David, John and Christine, and Reading – Paul, Camilla, Alma and Emma.

Tough love and cake

I’m not a natural nurturer. The career in nursing I embarked on when I left school came to a fairly abrupt end once I realised that ill people needed looking after, and my kids have to be on the brink of keeling over before they get a day off school. So possibly the place you’d least expect to find me on World Gin Day was ready to dole out tea and sympathy at an aid station for runners on the Centurion Running South Downs Way 100. But there I was.

I’ve been around a few Centurion events before, as crew and pacer for David, but this time we’d both volunteered to join the Centurion Army and man the 14th and final aid station on the route. The Jevington aid station is in the village hall which rather cruelly is located up around a dozen steps. By the time we’d finished setting out all the food, put some music on and hung some fairy lights around the door, the place looked like it was ready for a 6 year-old’s birthday party.

                     

To be fair we may have gone a little overboard on the catering. In addition to the food supplied by Centurion, we’d had a bit of a Jevington Bake Off between us. The table was decked with flapjacks, gingerbread men, brownies, blondies and cheese straws baked by us and our fellow volunteers (Mark Craig and Richard Tickner), as well as a couple of different cakes and my signature Gin and Tonic Lemon Drizzle cake.

Messages had been coming in on the Whatsapp group of volunteers all day, letting us know the numbers of runners who didn’t start and those who had called it a day at checkpoints earlier in the race. We worked out that we wouldn’t see our first runner until around 10pm, so there was nothing else for it but to taste test a few of the goodies. Well, you wouldn’t want to poison an ultra runner in the middle of a race now, would you?

Another “ping” on my phone (the only one to have any signal in Jevington – a world first for EE) and I read out a message from James telling us the lead runner, Stellan Fries had got lost and could someone run back up the trail to find him. David and a couple of the Centurion staff, Gary and Chris, who’d been helping with the cake testing, set off, leaving the three of us to welcome in the first four runners.

Lead runners don’t hang about much at aid stations, so the cake supplies didn’t really go down by much. I have to be honest I was a bit nervous about how Stellan would be when he turned up. Losing four places having had a pretty decent lead must have been devastating. But he really was grace itself when he found his own way into Jevington and we called off the search party.

We soon slipped into an easy share of duties as the runners started to come through; one of us acted as a Maître D’, greeting and welcoming runners and pacers and apologising for the steps. Some of the runners just couldn’t face the steps (who could blame them?) so we’d log their time and run and get them something if there was anything they needed. I must have done a fair few hill reps through the night. One of us recorded times, one sorted out any food and filled up runners’ bottles, and one of us made tea. And every now and then without really talking about it, we’d all swap roles. Not bad for a group of people who (apart from David and myself) had only known each other for a few hours.

In the Twitter and Facebook build-up to the race, we’d come up with the hash tag #NobodyDropsAtJevington. Little did I know how important this was to become for us. There was no way we were going to let anyone hand in their race number at our aid station. As night turned to day and a steady stream of runners in various degrees of fatigue and pain came through, we had to apply some “tough love”. When you’ve trained as a nurse, albeit a not very sympathetic one, it can be quite a challenge to persuade, cajole and otherwise force people who are clearly showing signs of dehydration, exhaustion and in some cases injury, to get back on their feet and run another 4.7 miles. But knowing their goals and how far they’d come on their journey, we all knew that was the job we had to do. So we handed out drinks, cakes, hugs if they were needed, positioned buckets close to nauseous runners and hammered on the toilet door when runners had stayed in there slightly longer than might have been expected at that time of night. And so we turfed them all back out onto the trail again.

As cut-off time for our aid station approached, we knew there were still three runners out on the course. Mark’s wife Joanne and their children had joined us by this time and they became our scouts, running back up the trail until they found a runner, finding out what they needed from us and running down to let us know so that we could bring it to them at the bottom of the steps to save them precious time. Two of them got through and got going again; only one runner still out there. Joanne and the kids set off again and the rest of us paced around, glancing nervously at our watches and each other and peering back up the trail willing a runner to appear. Come on! Nobody drops at Jevington, remember!

It seemed to take an age before Jo Turner finally appeared on the other side of the lane, preceded by Joanne and the kids and accompanied by her pacer, rather like a bride and her entourage arriving at the wedding venue, only perhaps with a little less glamour. We ran to get what she needed, handed it to her pacer as he chased her down the lane and wished them well. She hadn’t stopped, but she hadn’t dropped either.

So our first and our final runners had caused us the most excitement, and those in between had been, without exception, a pleasure to serve. I hope in some small way we helped you achieve your goals. Within half an hour we had completed the process of closing and clearing the aid station, saying goodbye and heading home for some rest. And in case anyone was wondering, I managed to catch up on World Gin Day at that point too.

Blown away

I won’t normally blog about family days out, after all, they’re not typically the most exciting things to read about third hand. Family went out, did stuff, had an ice cream, came home. But today was rather fun, so bear with me.

I was meant to be working so David had booked the day off to look after the kids, it being half term, but earlier this week my work was cancelled so we had an unexpected opportunity for a family day out. I had a yearning to see the sea, but the weather forecast wasn’t looking great. Springwatch last night featured marine wildlife, with a clip of some families having fun in the rock pools at Birling Gap. We figured if we got up early enough we could get to the coast ahead of the forecast band of rain, spend some time there and then drive back through it, getting back to RTW on the other side of it. Perfect. A plan.

Obviously I completely ignored the wind speeds (and the tides) on the weather forecast. We parked at Birling Gap and could barely force the car doors open. The sea looked mad, churning and frothing wildly, covering the beach, and the birds were having a tough time flying, let alone landing anywhere. I’m never sure if birds actually get to where they plan to go when it’s windy, or whether they just land where the wind drops them and try to look cool.

 

The tide was in, so rock pooling would have to wait a while, making a little stroll along the cliff tops seem like a sensible plan. It was sensible in the same way that putting mascara on while on a moving train is a sensible way to prepare for an important meeting.  I can honestly say I’ve never felt wind like it. It quite literally lifted you off your feet. I could see cautious families heading to the National Trust cafe or back to the safety of their cars.

So what did we do? We ran! We held hands and ran together in a line up the hill to the Belle Tout Lighthouse. Running uphill with what must have been an 80 mph gust of wind behind you felt incredible. You run faster than you ever normally could with almost zero effort. There were lots of screams and giggles and howls, and not all of them from the kids. It’s the sort of laughter that comes out when you’re yo-yoing between having the most fun and being totally terrified. Hysteria, basically. At one point the children’s laughter does turn to tears  when a gust whips up some chalk dust and it hits their faces  but this just makes me laugh more hysterically in a “everything’s fine, isn’t this fun and aren’t we responsible parents really?” kind of way.

If anything the wind on the top was even stronger; the children needed to clamber about on all fours to feel a bit safer. The run downhill was slower and harder than the run up, the wind in our faces counteracting the descent. Just as exhilarating though, prompting more laughter and whooping. We made it back to the car, breathless and still laughing from our ride on nature’s roller-coaster.

I loved feeling the power of the wind, such a force that appears to come from nowhere. And the noise of it and of the sea crashing below that makes you have to shout to make yourself heard above it. It makes me feel small and humble and insignificant but at the she time powerful; strong enough that I can stay upright (and keep my kids more or less the right way up too) and fit enough that I can actually run in it and feel it lift me along.

So if you’re experiencing the need to clear your head a bit, have some family time and feel the wind in your face, forget the theme park; go out and run on the cliff tops in a gale. Just don’t go too near to the edge!

On the wrong side of the barriers. Again.

This weekend’s original plan had me running the Weald Challenge Trail Half Marathon while David ran the Ultra at the same event and the children did something yet to be determined with someone yet to volunteer to look after them.

If you don’t know them, the Weald Challenge Trail races are really great; only in their second year but well organised over a lovely route and fairly local for me. I did the Half last year (there’s a Marathon and 50k Ultra too) and thoroughly enjoyed it so was looking forward to doing it again with some of my Paris Plodder friends (the group of women I did the marathon with), relying on our training for that to get us comfortably to the end.
But then I got an email inviting my daughter to take part in the Westminster Mile for the second year. She’d done it last year and loved it, when it was on the same weekend as the Weald Challenge, but not the same day. Being the less than perfect mother that I am, I completely ignored the email and hoped she wouldn’t notice.
Guilt, and particularly maternal guilt, has a way of eating away at you; your own mental dripping tap. And mine did its work on me until eventually I came clean and let her know that the Westminster Mile was coming up but she didn’t really, really want to do it, did she? Well, yes, of course, she did. The excited face beamed at me and there was instantly talk of how big the medal would be this year and whether she might go “Sub 8”. (8:11 last year).
So I made the ultimate sacrifice. Well perhaps not ultimate, as I was able to defer my place to the new High Weald Challenge (sister race of the Weald Challenge) coming up in September which I’m sure will be just as good and is even more local. I’m just not going to be able to rely on spring marathon training to get me round it!
For those of you who consider there should be equality in marriage and are wondering why David didn’t give up his planned race to take her, I have to confess, I wondered that too. But this is a race in which he came third last year and I think he was secretly hoping for another plate to match this one.

Plus he seems more oblivious to the excited little face than I am.
So this morning, with the 2015 Mother of the Year Award safely in the bag, I waved David off for his race and set about preparing the nine year old for hers. I say waved. Not literally, obviously. I was still lying in bed.
Just to clarify, we are not pushy parents. Our children are still at ages where they believe all we do is cool and they want to emulate it. We encourage them, of course, but if they wanted to take up medieval jousting reenactment as a hobby instead of running, then we’d encourage them to do that too. Although the kit is harder to come by in Decathlon.
Some lovely friends of ours had agreed to look after our son, who’s too young for the Westminster Mile this year, so he trotted off happily with his Nerf gun while his sister and I headed for the train.
The Westminster Mile organisation is pretty slick, and Green Park was well kitted out with plenty of pretty clean Portaloos, a picnic area and a few things to do while you wait for your “wave”. We had a slight confusion about whether the U11 and U13 kids were to be escorted to the start from the drop-off point like last year (they weren’t) which left us rushing a bit to get her to the start.
It’s at this point that you have to give your first born a kiss (and an orange Smartie from her brother) and let her go. In London. With people you don’t know. Gulp. I joined a few other mildly trembling mums on the other side of the barrier to watch our girls be corralled to the start line.  

 

I take a few pictures, wave, blow kisses, make heart signs and otherwise generally embarrass her and myself, then head off across the park to be by the “100m to go” sign.
I’m there in time to see the last U11/U13 boys finish and then watch the start of the girls’ race on the big screen nearby. Amongst the 4-5 foot tall girls in various shades of pink with very high swishy ponytails is none other than a 6ft something Steve Cram in canary yellow! I’m so excited to see my girl on the big screen running just behind his left elbow that I let out a little yelp and the people around me give me those sympathetic smiles.  

 

“Which one’s your daughter?” I can’t answer. She’s made me promise not to cry. Which frankly is ridiculous as I’ve already cried at least five times before this. Fortunately it’s quite sunny and I can wear my sunglasses.
And then before I know it the lead runners have gone past (the winner completing her mile in 5:37 – wow!) and then there’s the Yarrow Arrow and then there’s my girl, race face on, arms pumping, finish line in her sights. I just about see her through my slightly blurry eyes as she crosses the line under a clock that says 7:47.  

Another small yelp escapes and a kindly chap moves his Boris Bike aside so I can head for the repatriation zone at the finish. I elbow my way through hoards of people who seem to be out for a pleasant stroll amid the sights of London. Lovely to share our capital with them, but just get the heck out of my way will you, I have a daughter to find!
Eventually I reach the big “U11 Girls” sign and scoop her up into my arms for another moist-eyed moment, although as my face is buried in her neck no one sees this one. Officially her time was 7:48, 23 seconds quicker than last year and the Sub-8 she had hoped for. She has a huge medal (currently under her pillow) with a picture of Steve Cram on the back, who I now know high fived her at the start. His 30 year old British mile record of 3:46:32 still stands.
News from David is that he’s improved on his 2014 Weald Challenge Ultra time but alas not made the top three, so I’m relieved not to have to find room for another plate on my gin shelf.
So we head for home, settle in for dinner, and the boy and I try not to sulk that we don’t have medals to show for our heroic selflessness and Nerf battle prowess.
Would I have liked to do the Weald Challenge Half this weekend? You bet I would! But would I have missed seeing my daughter achieve a running ambition and meeting a British running hero? Not on your life!