I never planned to be a runner. I fell into it.
I started to stop myself from being fat and immobile at 45. I fell into a 10k, then stumbled blindly into a marathon, taking in a half-marathon as part of the training. This weekend, I wandered aimlessly into my first 24-hour endurance race.
The event is Equinox24, set in the stunning grounds of Belvoir Castle in Leicestershire. I always loved Belvoir Castle as a youngster; school trips there filled me with wonder. There was wonder here, no amble around the castle. The only challenge is simple to explain but tough to complete: run as far as you can in 24 hours on a mixed-terrain 10k loop, starting at midday Saturday and finishing at midday Sunday.
Alongside the full 24-hour race, there are other options, ones I didn’t take. Runners can test themselves in the standalone Day 10k or Night 10k races. You can enter solo or in teams of two to eight, whether you are chasing a podium finish or simply want to experience the atmosphere.
I entered as part of a team, Arts and Drafts, which included Imptoons legend and a much younger man, Chris Wray. Ahead of the event, we decided we’d like to do 120k between us. It seemed doable, without having experienced the course. Chris had seen the course, and he was a bit apprehensive at first as to my targets.
It isn’t just a race. The facilities are designed to make the weekend an experience in itself. Camping is available from Friday through to Monday, with toilets, hot showers, food outlets and trade stalls on site. Ahead of the event, I was told that what makes Equinox24 stand out is the atmosphere. It has built a reputation as one of the friendliest and most supportive running events in the country, welcoming everyone from seasoned ultra runners to first-time challengers. Competitors and spectators alike are part of what makes it such a memorable weekend.
That’s pretty accurate. We pitched up in the van close to the toilet block, thinking it would cut down on walking at night, but instead, it meant the entire night was set against a backdrop of slamming portaloo doors. The campsite is big, certainly bigger than the recent GIAF festival I went to. Facilities are good: the warm showers were so welcoming, but there was plenty of choice in terms of food, and some good trade stalls as well. It’s best described as a festival vibe without the beer and the bands.
Some might say without the fun as well.
I feel now I was wholly ill-prepared for the event. For London, I had so much good advice that when I got there, I felt like I’d already run it once. At Equinox, I had none of that. I’d had advice, but generally I thought I’d run a 10k, chill for a bit and then go again. I had porridge, Lucozade and water, so I felt I’d be fine.
My training had been poor. I thought building up to a couple of 10k runs a day would be good, but three weeks before I did 30k in 24 hours and felt a twinge in my knee. Since then, the longest I’d done was 5k, and that was every other day. Still, I thought I could strap up my knee and just take painkillers, and I’d be fine. Hell, I ran a marathon in under five hours in April, how hard could doing a few 10k runs in 24 hours be?
Very hard.
I had no concept of that before I started. I lined up at the start, oblivious to the utter hell I was about to experience. Remember, I had no idea of the course. I’d heard about something called ‘That Hill’ which would test me, but otherwise I was blind.
The gun went off, everyone started and I went with the flow. As the daytime 10k was going at the same time, I got caught in some early traffic, but very quickly realised what trouble I was in. Almost all of my running has been done on tarmac, and while I had bought trail trainers, I wasn’t really prepped for a proper trail race. I wore my trail trainers, but once I felt my knee, I think I adjusted my running stance slightly to avoid the pain. That made me run awkwardly, and it led to other issues.
I was fending off the pain in my knee, but the terrain began to take its toll. The first couple of kilometres take you up a path, then around a field with small inclines. That was fine, but at 3k I saw a sign that said ‘Not That Hill’. I thought that meant a nice flat run, but no, it did not. Instead, over one kilometre, I experienced a 50m climb. I think I prefer one short climb, because you can walk or adjust quickly. This was unknown, and I sapped a lot of energy thinking I was nearly done.
The course is really pretty, you wind around a lake and through some woodland, and as it’s like a figure of eight, you often find people running towards you, so there is a degree of etiquette. Once I’d beaten the first hill I felt weary, and my thigh started to really ache. I couldn’t feel my knee, but my right leg began to hurt quite badly. I stopped at the water station briefly, tried to stretch it out (I saw that during London 24 on TV) and set off again, only to encounter That Hill.
That Hill is pointless. The course brings you to a ridge where you look out across Nottinghamshire. Then, in the space of just 0.4k, you drop almost 40m, before doing a sharp U-turn, and climbing the other side, this time hitting a 30m climb in just 0.2k. It’s gruelling, because the drop is so steep you have to watch your step, going slowly, and the climb is so sharp, you only really have the option to walk. It’s utterly soul-destroying, and it smashed my half-decent time to pieces.
It ruined my leg as well. The initial plan was to do 20k, but I reached the top of the hill and messaged Chris to tell him I needed to come off. The last 3k is fine, a gentle meander through some fields, onto a path and then round the campsite, dropping around 40m but over a nice stretch of land.
At the end of the course, you have a snap wristband, and like a relay, you pass that to your partner in a staging area. I came in, limping, snapped it on Chris’s wrist, and off he went.
He went for the full two hours, so I went back to the van and applied some frozen peas to my throbbing thigh. It felt like my race was over, so I necked some painkillers and tried to keep moving. I applied freeze spray, and a thigh brace, all in the vain hope I could get my legs working again. Fe, our support staff, made tea and generally gave me encouragement to get back out.
Two hours later, I was back in the holding area. After running a poor 1:08 in the first lap, I went out again, and this time, managed a 1:11. It’s not fast, but the walk up the hill kills some time, and knowing the course, I could be more conservative with a walk up Not That Hill as well. I struggled, between the knee and the thigh I knew I was in a bit of trouble, but the two times weren’t all that bad.
Chris and I touched base again, he then went out for an hour, with me picking up one from half six. That meant I’d be in around half seven (or so I thought), so darkness was falling. Enter the reflective coat, the head torch and the rain. I’ve only really run in decent weather, and never at night, so this was new territory.
Run number three was utter hell. My right calf began to cramp up as well, and my whole right leg felt like it had just given up. It was so frustrating, because my left leg just felt a bit of fatigue, but nothing more. Once again the key parts of the course began to bite hard, and it got muddy. Rain fell, the off-road bits churned up, and that added more time. It was like running through porridge at times, and the irony wasn’t lost on me. In my attempt to strap up, spray up and use painkillers, I’d omitted to fuel properly, and 3k into my third lap, hunger hit.
That got worse. Climbing That Hill made me dizzy and lightheaded, and I ambled across the final few kilometres genuinely feeling like I might need medical attention. My stomach rumbled, and I daredn’t drop a gel in case it went straight through me. Equinox organisers try to keep the loos clean, but late at night they’re not attended, and by the time darkness fell, a couple near us weren’t fit for purpose, unless you could levitate above the seats.
Halfway around, I got a drink and stood by the water station. Another guy, looking equally as broken as me, sipped his drink. We made eye contact and I said, ‘What the hell am I doing with my life?’. I was around 8pm on Saturday night and I was 25km into a challenge that was breaking my 46-year-old body, I was soaked in rain on my top half and caked in mud on my bottom half, taking part in a race I had zero chance of actually winning. He just shrugged back, and off we went into the emerging darkness.
Run three was 1:24, and on Strava, I describe it as comfortably the worst hour and a half of my life. I still needed to get two in.
After that I enjoyed a warm shower, an oasis of comfort in a world of hurt, and smashed my way through some dinner. Chris went out again, the heavens opened, and I settled down for a couple of hours’ sleep. My plan was to get up at 4am, drop a double lap, and be one away from my total.
At 4am I woke, ate some porridge and watched Chris munch his way through leftover fish and chips. I hobbled to the loo for a wee, unsure of how I intended to run 10k if I couldn’t walk 40 yards, but shrugged that off. I got into all my nighttime gear, and set off. By now, the course was sodden, Chris had been caught in it, but even basic straights out of the campsite were soaked. Because it was nighttime, my light only lit up what was immediately in front, so it was impossible to avoid bad bits. I got 1km in and my dry mouth hit — I realised in my rush to get out, I hadn’t had a drink. My fuelling was terrible, and I was running on two pots of porridge and no water. It took 1:35, my left knee began to hurt, I hadn’t strapped up and I just felt silly at being so poorly prepped. I dropped my second lap, mainly because it wouldn’t have been fair to rob Chris, still fresh as a daisy, of the chance to see the sunrise on his run. Another double, I might add.
He returned, now on seven laps and happy to call it a day. By the time he got back, the sun was out. The course was still ankle deep in filth in places, but a new day had dawned, and I decided I couldn’t possibly finish on four laps. I had to do a fifth, even if I walked the whole way. I decided to go full kit. I never wear Imps’ shirts now, but I put the shirt on, the shorts, even red Under Armour (which it was too warm for). I finished off my ditching running socks and just wearing red Adidas to complete the kit. Hell, my feet hurt enough anyway, and running wasn’t the plan.
I managed to run for a kilometre, and then on and off for another two, before my body told me no more. Both knees throbbed, my upper thigh was tight and generally I felt shattered. My watch, when I turned it on for another lap, told me today was a rest day, I wish. Still, the sun was out, and 1:37 minutes later, I came around to the partially submerged, boggy, finish straight. I couldn’t break out into a jog to cross the line.
Chris met me there, having got our medals, and gave me a huge hug. We’d done 120km, around 74 miles, between us. Overall, out of 39 pairs, we finished 18th, which was great considering I was broken for four of the five laps I did.
It is a great event, and a nice touch is having the race photos thrown in for free, usually a big expense on top of any race entry. It’s a decent fee to enter when you also consider the camping and facilities.
I felt sad, if I’m honest, once I’d finished. I felt I let myself down with some planning, and that my body let me down when it came to just doing the six. That feeling has subsided a little, and now I just feel excited about doing the same again next year.
I have no fucking idea why.
