DNF – Did Not FInish
After training for my first ultra-marathon, like a DNF would kill me, we headed to Devon to take on a 54km ultra race. There was nothing left to do now but drive, eat well, and enjoy the occasion. Little did I know, I’d be facing my fears, but in doing so, I’d come out of it a stronger runner, dare I say, a stronger person.
Best Laid Plans for a First Ultra-Marathon
I slept well, like everyone who offered race day prep for my first ultra-marathon said I wouldn’t. I’d readied my gear the night before, had an early night, and tried my best to eat and drink well. The race day preparations themselves started long before the morning of the event. We’d booked the closest available Airbnb, and as luck would have it, the start and finish line were behind us in the field.
Our fortune continued when we woke up to check the weather. Storm Éowyn had been forecast to hit the Devon coast that morning. Fortunately, the sun had come to cheer us on. There was a strong coastal breeze and a chill, but nothing warranted the thermal undershirt I’d rushed to buy, only because the mandatory kit list had demanded one. I had ordered one with the next delivery, but it never arrived before I left. But that seems irrelevant to this story now. Despite poor clothing planning, my preparation was almost perfect.
Yet even the best-laid plans present problems. First, Will had to run home, having forgotten his phone. I laughed and sipped my freshly made coffee. It was easy to take the high ground at my first victory of the day, but Storm, Will’s wife, had forgotten her phone, too. When I reached for my phone to call Will and ask him to pick it up, I realised that in my haste to get to the start line early, I’d also forgotten mine. Red-faced, I jogged back home, hoping that was the only thing that went wrong.
I Trained For My First Ultra-Marathon Like A DNF Would Kill Me
As far as problems go, jogging back 100m doesn’t seem like a problem at all. After all, I had glycogen stores filled with two portions of macaroni cheese, garlic bread, and my simple rocket salad. For our last marathon, our first, we’d gone out for pizza and a beer to enjoy the moment we’d trained for. It was a stupid idea, so we tried something different. We had a high-carbohydrate dinner and a fish and chip lunch in Dartmouth with unlimited fat chips. It’s all carbohydrates, right?
I ran consistently 50-60km a week during training and ran a marathon PB. At first, I found pride in progress since my pace was fast enough to set this record. I hadn’t pushed for it, just ran at my new leisurely pace. And the hard work was done; that marathon was supposed to be the longest run of my training block. It was all downhill from here, metaphorically. Fatigue was settling in, and it was made worse by eating and drinking a lot of crap over Christmas. I’d even run a few tempo runs, setting a 10k PB. Yet, as I was supposed to start decreasing the distances, I ran a New Year’s Eve marathon with Will for fun.
Those welcomed shorter runs at the start of January felt heavy on my legs, and my shins pulsated with pain. I had no choice but to slow down and stop running for 10 days before the race. Apart from a 40-km cycle instead of my usual long run on Sunday, I didn’t do anything. In hindsight, that was my biggest mistake.
Get Set, Go
We lined up at the start, ensuring we were as far back as possible so faster and fitter runners wouldn’t push us forward. If you’d asked me then, I’d have told you I was ready and that months of training had prepared me for this, despite the minor setbacks.
As we passed the red inflatable start line, my slow pace felt like dragging myself up a grassy, muddy hill. The slog pushed my heart into overdrive, and I couldn’t bring it down, as I forced myself to keep pace, so we reached the cut-off. That was the biggest problem, one Will had always taken seriously, but I’d stubbornly ignored.
The race offered several distance options, including a 10k and a marathon. Since we’d signed up for the Ultra-Marathon, we’d run the marathon course first, then the 10k route. However, since this race took place in January, when the sky lost its light around 5:55 p.m., there was a strict cutoff time to prevent runners from tiringly traversing cliff faces in the pitch black.
We’d agreed to run the race together, to stick together. Soon, it became clear that this race would be much more challenging than I’d anticipated. The cut-off time would prove more difficult than I had thought. Yet, Will was determined to make it. Soon, he stopped waiting for me. He jogged a few km, waiting for me to catch up, but I couldn’t.
Storm waited at the first checkpoint. She told me Will wasn’t that far ahead, and I could catch him. It was added motivation along with the cold slice of pizza she offered me. But every time I found momentum, I was hit with a steep hill, an excessively muddy path, or a bout of rock climbing. Physically, something had gone wrong.
My First Ultra-Marathon: I Just Wasn’t Ready
Was it the 10-day break? The overtraining? The poor nutrition? Was it the course? Or was I just not ready? Whatever the answers, 20km in, I was done.
If I had to answer any of those questions, I could find all kinds of excuses. The truth is, I just wasn’t ready. My first marathon came too soon, and while I’d trained more consistently this time, my first ultra-marathon, with all its elevation, was probably a little too much. While Will succeeded in running less leading up to the race, he had already run an ultra and conditioned himself for the course. It was a new experience, one that confidence allowed me to underestimate.
That marathon PB was only under 6 hours, so reaching a shorter cut-off time was probably never possible. Knowing I would fail triggered an internal voice that suggested I’d be branded a failure. The negative self-talk was a war with the same voice that always pushed me to do a little more.
“Just give up, you won’t get a medal,” the voice in my head said in mocking disapproval.
“If you quit now, you have no defence,” a softer voice whispered.
I called Storm at 25km to come and get me. I’d done a half marathon, allowing me to claim a medal since that’s one of the distance options they covered. It wouldn’t have all been for nothing. Then again, it probably wouldn’t earn me a medal since I’d signed up for a different commitment. The internal turmoil continued. But I was done. Storm would pick me up, and I’d be free from this torment of struggle.
I Walk Alone
I knew I would have broken down in tears once I got into the car. The fear of failure would have been realised, and there would be little more I could do to regain a sense of pride. I probably wouldn’t be writing this if she hadn’t made me wait for her to meet Will at a later checkpoint. Pride refused to allow me to stay at an aid station, alongside the organisers, and admitted to them that I was a failure. I was giving up on my first ultra-marathon. So, I walked. Alone. Crying. But I kept on walking.
As 3 pm UK time approached, I knew I could survive the next hour or so walking as my beloved Arsenal were about to kick off. Having planned to run with Will, neither of us brought our headphones. Fortunately, I was alone in the country and could afford to play the radio out loud. The voices kept me going. Kept me out of my head. I hadn’t told Storm I was carrying on. I was waiting for her call so I could tell her where I was, but time passed. The radio cut out.
I walked for 10km without mobile phone coverage or seeing a road. What must Storm have thought? Then, the biggest challenge presented itself. It wasn’t a muddy path or another steep hill to climb. It was the 10km turn-off to return to the start. According to the signposts, it was one mile from the end. I wouldn’t need Storm; I could be free and home with a warm coffee.
Quitting Isn’t Easy
The turning point led to an open field. I stopped, then paced towards the end. I stopped again, turned and slowly ambled back towards the full route. Again, I stopped and paced towards quitting. I couldn’t decide. The voices raged on. The decision was one of pursuit in the face of failure and one of outright giving up, easing the pain—a choice between valour and weakness.
I wouldn’t need to make that decision. Another runner would. She’d reached the end of the ultra and offered motivational words to spur me on for the last mile. I told her I wasn’t on the last mile; I was still on the first leg, debating whether to quit my first ultra-marathon.
‘No. Don’t Quit,’ she said.
I nodded. There are 16km more to go. I can walk that. I worked out the time based on my walking pace and marched on, slowly.
I’ll Keep on Walking
When my reception returned, I returned Storm’s missed calls. She motivated me to continue with her words of pride and said that she would wait for me at the finish line. I called my mum, who also kept me going. And I walked. The slowest marathon I’d ever run or not run. My only goal now was to get back before the sky turned black, and whether I’d receive a medal for what was a definite DNF. It would suck to go through all of this and not getting something to show for it.
I had no intention of cheating, no desire to pretend I completed the full ultra when I took the turning. I would have chosen not to cross the finish and quietly told the organisers I’d dropped out. However, honestly, alone, it wouldn’t have made me feel worthy of a medal. I’d have failed. Worse than that, I’d have quit. But I walked on.
The last leg proved the hardest challenge as dusk arrived and grew cold along the coast. I may have got lucky and avoided the forecast storm, but the cold seaside air was always promised to us in the depths of winter. Still, I walked on, past the pub in the village where I’d soon enjoy a pint, and soon I’d pass our cottage, where I could fall asleep for the rest of my life. And soon, I’ll walk across that finish line to cheers from Will and Storm. I might have DNF’ed, but I didn’t quit. I deserve that medal now.
And finally…
The small climb up the hill at the start was challenging, but the walk across the field seemed tougher, now darkened by night. A race organiser ushered me in the right direction towards the finish line, and it soon came into sight. I was still walking. I had walked continuously for over half the race now. The bells were ringing, and the few remaining voices cheered. I couldn’t see Storm, their dog, or Will in the darkness. I thought they’d gone home for Will to recover, planning to come and meet me as I got nearer.
In the distance, beneath the dark, the finish line came closer into view. Outlines of people against a backdrop of night cheered me on. Stubbornly, I refused to run. I’d committed to this walk. There would be no epic photo finish. I wasn’t about to become something I wasn’t. I chose to walk. I’ll walk until it’s over.
When I crossed the finish line, an organiser hung a medal around my neck and congratulated me as though he knew nothing of my mental turmoil. Will approached me to congratulate me and tell me that Storm had to take the dog home. It had been a long day for him. But Will, who had also run the race, had pushed to finish the ultra-marathon; he, who had left me, was still there, waiting, struggling to stand, and cold. I wolfed down a coffee given to me by an event organiser, and we ambled home together with our own victorious stories to tell.
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