How the joy of trails helped take me from hospital bed to 50k ultra runner
I finished my first ultra marathon this weekend - if you’ll indulge me, here’s how I got there
Pain shot through my legs as I attempted to sit up again.
For 25 minutes I’d be lying on the floor, occasionally trying to leverage myself into a more comfortable position or to attempt to stand.
The bright sun beat down on me and on the surrounding greenery of Northamptonshire’s Salcey Forest as runners milled around the aid station or set off again on another looped trek through the trees.
Cramp had stopped my journey. Then I’d made the mistake of sitting - and lying - down.
The ultra distance I’d hoped to complete at that day’s six hour looped Big Bear event had disappeared in the glare of a 28-degree day.
It wasn’t the first time in just over a year that I’d ended up on my back, unable to move.
The previous time had seen me rushed to A&E at Kettering Hospital, a fierce aching in my chest barely numbed by morphine.
As I was hoiked up onto an operating table, ready for a stent to be put in as the result of my suspected heart attack, I had never felt such pain.
My chest heaved. I was scared.
Scared about the possible long-term effects. Of what my life would be like in the future. If I’d be able to be active.
And, yes, even if I’d run again.
For much of my life I’d never been that serious a runner. I ran to keep fit, so I could play football and cricket, and in order to eat and drink as much as I wanted without putting on too much weight.
I’d ticked off the obligatory bucket list marathon, and done another because I wasn’t really happy with my first time.
But I had no great running ambitions.
Michelle had become the runner in our relationship, with 17 marathons - now 18 - to her name. She’d started a running club and was even hosting a podcast you might have heard of.
But absence, and even the potential for it, makes the heart grow fonder, and not being able to run was one of a thousand thoughts going through my head as the doctor prepared to operate.
As a preliminary scan finished, the doctor’s attitude suddenly changed. I wasn’t going to be operated on.
This wasn’t a heart attack. I had something called pericarditis.
A thousand thoughts became two thousand.
Over the hours, days, weeks and even months that followed many of those questions were answered - although I’ll never know what caused my illness for sure.
Pericarditis is an inflammation of the pericardial sac which surrounds the heart. It presents in exactly the same way as a heart attack.
England women’s footballer and European Championship winner, Fran Kirby, famously had it.
So, incredibly, did Bob Dylan back in 1997. His illness was apparently caused by inhaling fungal spores found in bird or bat droppings, primarily in areas located near river valleys such as those in Indiana, Tennessee and Illinois - where the musician had played concerts.
Mine was mostly likely caused by a virus. Like Covid-19, although I tested negative for that three times in the hospital. It can also be caused by the coronavirus vaccine, but that’s extremely rare and I’d had mine months beforehand.
And of course, people contracted pericarditis back in the days when Corona was still only a refreshing beer.
So who knows how I got it. Ultimately, it didn’t really matter. I was on a long road to recovery.
When I left hospital a few days later I was constantly out of breath. My heart rate would hit 180 climbing the stairs and I’d been told to avoid all but the most basic exercise.
Pericarditis can often recur - sometimes constantly - and I did have a couple of more minor episodes over the months that followed.
How active I could be in the future was still very much up for debate. Some people I heard from were still struggling years after being diagnosed.
Slowly, I started to be able to do more. About four months after my initial attack I managed to play cricket - or at least to bowl a couple of overs and lurk at fine-leg out of the way of the ball.
Eventually I tried running again, taking up the Couch to 5k programme and easing myself along.
Every run became a post-pericarditis PB, starting at two miles. To slow myself down and avoid too much exertion (I’ve always been terrible at pacing) I took to local trails, the uneven ground and often muddy pathways nicely curbing any over enthusiasm.
And steadily I started to improve again. I was running for the full time I was out, rather than stopping to walk. One- and two-mile runs became five or even ten. Eventually I did a half-marathon.
Best of all the doctors, after about seven months, were able to sign me off. Touch every piece of wood available, I’ve had no problems since.
To my surprise, I was also starting to really love trail running. The beautiful scenery. The solitude and the freedom it brings.
On one run I fell over spectacularly in the mud after just a mile. Caked from head to toe in the good stuff, and with blood beginning to trickle from a cut to my knee, I took the only decision any sensible trail runner would. I slogged on for another nine miles and came home smiling ear to ear.
The post-peri PB distances continued and - having finished my first half-marathon since my return at a Big Bear event in Salcey Forest - I decided it was time to do a trail ultra.
If I haven’t already persuaded you I’d lost my mind to running, now you know.
And so, we return to the start - but not the end - of this little story. Sapped by the heat, I was flat on the floor, my ultra attempt out of the window as time ticked down.
I did eventually manage to pick myself up, and even ran a quick - by which I mean hobbled a very slow - out and back route to chalk off a marathon.
I hadn’t hit my target. But I wasn’t disheartened.
The trails were soon calling again, and this weekend I found myself on the start line of another looped, six-hour event.
This time it was at Peterborough’s picturesque Ferry Meadows Country Park, with the wonderful Zig Zag Racing and a host of other masochists for company.
Starting out with Michelle, who would eventually finish a half-marathon of her own, I began another ultra attempt.
Ferry Meadows is a fantastic park, with scenery varied enough to keep you going even on a seventh, eighth or ninth lap.
It probably helped that it was closer to nine than 29 degrees.
And I’d trained a bit better with plenty of long, slow runs, each approaching or over 20 miles. Out on the course I kept to around 11 minute miles, so my body wasn’t too surprised by the whole experience.
I’d also done a lot more strength training. In all my previous long runs and marathons, I'd neglected strength, but this time round I'd been doing at least one session a week.
I'd been doing lots of stretching too - every morning in fact. I think doing more than just running, running, running helped me get better at just that, and to develop all round fitness and flexibility.
And my in-race nutrition was better. As you may have guessed, on most long races, I suffer from cramp. This time, I ate salty as well as sugary foods after each 5k loop and took plenty of liquid onboard.
I guess if you put the wrong fuel in a car it won't work, and the same is true for your body.
The long and short of it… in a time just under six hours, I did it. My first 50k, my first ultra.
From thinking I might not run again, I’d completed something only a tiny percentage of the world’s population has managed. It felt pretty damn cool.
My achievement is nothing compared to those of the people in other stories on this website, but I wanted to share it with you.
I hope you don’t think that’s too self-indulgent. In any case, one final thought.
If you’re lying on your back, and the world seems to be passing you by, just remember to keep going. Your dreams might be just around the corner.
Thanks for reading and listening to Running Tales. We couldn’t do this without your support - please back us to keep going by…
Congratulations, and welcome to the ultra world! But fair warning: 50Ks are a gateway drug...