The North Downs Way 50 2021 took place on the 22nd May. Covering around 51 miles or 82.5km from Farnham in Surrey to Knockholt Pound in Kent, the race took in approximately 5500 feet or 1700 metres of cumulative elevation gain, and was the second in the 2021 Centurion 50 mile Grand Slam series. I finished in 9:32:51, 64th overall, 57th male, and 20th in my age category.

I first signed up to the NDW 50 in June 2019. I remember it quite distinctly: I was nestled on the sofa of a friend in New Zealand after a meal. Having drunk a bit of wine (when in Aotearoa), I saw on Facebook that entries for the 2020 edition of the North Downs Way 50 had opened up. Somewhat spontaneously, knowing that I had a 50k in November to help me prepare, I decided it was time to bite the bullet and have a crack at a ‘proper’ ultramarathon.

Once COVID hit, that race was postponed to July, which was suited me quite well as I hadn’t done all that much training towards the end of our time in New Zealand. But then, with four weeks to go, it was postponed again to November. Not wanting to waste all my training, I ran 50 miles, solo, on a course of my own design. Later that summer, I got injured for nine weeks, and ultimately dropped out of the 2020 NDW 50, only for it to be cancelled after all, and for entries to be transferred to the 2021 edition. I bought a new entry to the 2021 edition.

Finally, after almost two years of delays, race day arrived.

Ambiguous ambitions

My ambitions for this race were clouded by a number of uncertainties, chief of which was the weather. In the days and weeks before the race, the UK was treated to seemingly non-stop rain. Thankfully its arrival coincided with my taper, so I didn’t have to spend much time getting a soaking, but as I lay down in my Airbnb the night before the race to the sound of torrential rain hammering the roof, the thought of spending 9+ hours running through a downpour did make me quite nervous.

Which brings me to the second uncertainty – the course. Unlike its twin trail, the South Downs Way, the North Downs Way is prone to muddiness, especially in those sections where the trail leaves behind the ridge line and skirts along the Downs’ escarpment. Having spend much of last winter sliding my way through some of the muddiest trails in recent memory, I knew the physical and psychological toil that mud can have.

The NDW is also noticeably steeper than the SDW. I’d scouted the course from Box Hill to the finish line, and knew to expect some gut-busting climbs. Generally, I prefer shorter, steeper climbs to the kind of long, steady ascents that characterise, say, the SDW. But I didn’t know how I would fare on climbs like Box Hill or Botley Hill with a marathon or more already in my legs.

Last but not least, there was the issue of timing. The NDW 50 coming just five short weeks after the South Downs Way 50 meant it was difficult to gauge exactly what to expect in terms of my performance. On the surface I felt fresh enough, though not remarkably so. But there was no way of knowing how deep my fatigue went, and I anticipated some difficult miles beyond the 50k mark.

It was with all of this on my mind that I headed down to Farnham the day before the race and checked into my Airbnb. In a way, I felt some relief at all these ambiguities preventing me from being able to set any clear goals for the race. It allowed me to focus on the bigger goal – that of just finishing the race confidently, and ticking off the second in the 2021 Grand Slam series.

The race

After a surprisingly restful night in my Airbnb (a lovely annex at the bottom of a garden in Wrecclesham), I walked the 40 minute walk to Farnham Leisure Centre. On the way, I picked up a canned iced coffee from a Co-Op, just to settle my stomach a bit and get a caffeine boost as I walked. Despite the COVID regulations, the pre-race procedures were incredibly smooth and straight forward. After dropping my bag I headed down the road to the start line. After quick temperature check, I was off.

Due to the staggered start times, which I’ve rather gotten used to, I had no company whatsoever for the first few minutes. I kept it nice and steady and let my mind settle in for the long haul, focusing on thinking nothing much and just taking it all in. The first half of the race was all new to me, and I knew only to expect somewhat flatter terrain than the suffer-fest that characterises the NDW from Box Hill to Caterham.

In the first few kilometres, I was overtaken by one or two runners who had either started much later than they should have (faster runners were asked to start earlier), or were taking it way too fast. I quietly hoped it was the latter, and that I would be seeing them again later in the race…

Before I knew it, I was at Puttenham aid station, where I took a moment to put a plaster on the side of my right forefoot. A hotspot had been forming that I was keen to avoid turning into a blister. Thankfully, the plaster seemed to work, and although it took me a minute or so to administer it, it undoubtedly saved me a huge amount of heartache later in the race.

After thanking the very friendly volunteers at Puttenham, I was on my way again, and making good progress. Quite soon I was caught up with by two friendly runners, who I had been leapfrogging for a while. Darryl, a South African now living in Amersham, and a gentleman from the London/Surrey border whose name I embarrassingly can’t recall. They had been moving strong on the descents and flats, whilst I had consistently caught them on each climb. As it turned out, all three of us were tackling the Grand Slam, so we chatted about our experiences at the South Downs Way 50, all agreeing upon the sense of despair that characterised the last couple of climbs.

Eventually we hit the first proper climb of the day, up St Martha’s Hill just outside Guildford, and I bid farewell to my new friends and decided to push ahead. This was a tough climb but my legs were still feeling very fresh. At the top, we were treated to the stunning views that make the North Downs Way such a special trail. Looking out across the vast Weald, it can be hard to believe sometimes that you are in one of the most densely populated pockets of the UK.

Coming off the hill, I spotted the first of a series of photographers who had positioned themselves around the Newlands Corner aid station, including Centurion celeb Ally Whitlock. One of these photographers was almost completely hidden in the shrubbery, which took me by surprise, but his unconventional pose meant he was able to capture the landscape beautifully.

After stocking up on water and fruit at Newlands, I knew that the next stretch of the race presented a real chance to bank some time before the inevitable Box Hill death march. Tentatively I shifted gears from ‘very easy’ to ‘moderate effort’, and rolled through a couple of flat kilometres at 5:40 pace or thereabouts. Quite quickly I caught up with one of the aforementioned runners who had overtaken me right at the start. Only a quarter of the way through the race he was looking quite worse for wear, and I couldn’t help but wonder if the sprightly pace at which he had passed me by earlier in the day had anything to do with it.

As the trail began to descend into Westhumble I banked a 5:23 kilometre – easy pace on any other day, but it felt like I was really booking it. I hit the A24 aid station in great spirits, knowing what was to come but also delighted to have gotten to the halfway point in just over 4 hours and still feeling fresh. Despite the weather warnings that had been looming over the race for weeks, the rain was holding off. Temperatures were hovering nicely around the 14°C mark, and the overcast skies kept any intense sunshine at bay. It was all going so well.

And then…

I knew it was coming. We all did.

The collective sense of excitement/dread was palpable at the A24 aid station. Here’s where the fun begins, was the prevailing attitude. And oh, did the fun begin.

The Box Hill climb is, for us southeasters, a monster. A seemingly endless procession of steps and 25% gradients, made all the more dramatic by the steady stream of hikers and day-trippers with whom you share the climb.

Unlike the South Downs Way 50, where passers-by were few and far between, much of the North Downs Way 50 was relatively crowded. I expected not to like this, but the trail is often wide enough that it causes no issues, and it was genuinely very motivating to be told “Good job” and “Keep going” by friendly walkers. Some were clearly more aware of the details of the race itself, and happily chimed in, “Only a marathon to go!”

Eventually we hit the summit, and despite feeling a little bit shakey I did my best to ‘jog it out’ and recover on the move. I ate a tangerine from the A24 aid station and soon felt surprisingly fresh, though I knew that the climbing were far from over. In fact, it had only just begun.

An hour or so later, after a couple of tricky mud-strewn sections of narrow trail on the Box Hill escarpment, the climb up to the Reigate aid station was just as taxing as Box Hill, if not more so. I caught up with a purple-clad runner called Nikki, with whom I would spend the rest of the race leapfrogging – me overtaking her on the climbs, she catching me up on the flats and descents. These kind of interactions can be hugely motivating in the tough ‘middle third’ of a race – on a couple of occasions, I picked up the pace on the flats to keep up with Nikki’s impressive turnover, and I definitely got a faster time overall as a result of our low-key competition. So thanks Nikki!

The Reigate aid station came much later than advertised, I think due to Centurion adjusting their instructions to fit 50 miles despite the race actually being closer to 52. Eventually though, after a beautiful stretch along the top of Reigate hill, we hit the aid station, and I stocked up on my usual cup of coke, water, fruit, and Jelly Babies.

Now firmly into ultra-terrain at 50km, I knew that the next couple of hours were going to be the toughest. No longer motivated by the pull of the halfway point, but still not close enough to the end to dare think about the finish line, all there was to do was to just keep going. This is, I believe, the hardest part of ultrarunning. So often we entertain notions of rolling along in a state of flow for hours, but the reality is that such moments are fleeting and rare. The true skill is clearing your mind of any temptation to think about finishing or dropping, and just getting through long stretches of dull, blunt suffering.

Despite this unpleasantness, a separate part of my mind was aware that I was faring much better psychologically than I had at the same point in the SDW 50, where thoughts of dropping out had been much more prevalent. On the North Downs, with the first race of the Grand Slam already in the bank, there was no question of throwing in the towel. The burning motivation of a PB was lacking, sure, but in its place was a steadily glowing desire to just get it done.

Because of this semi-conscious state, I don’t really call all that much about the race around this point, other than that it was quite miserable. Nikki and I continued our leapfrogging dance, her dragging me on just enough for us to reach the Caterham aid station more or less together. Here, the sun had finally come out, and I hurriedly stocked up on more goodies and got back into the shaded woodland on the trail.

After a couple of quite steep descents, we passed over the A22 and onto a section of the trail that was only familiar to me very vaguely, having hiked it way back in September 2020 when I was unable to run due to an injury. For a while the trail takes on an ‘edgelands’ flavour that I really enjoy, skirting around suburban fringes and industrial sites, before returning to the woodlands and fields that characterise most of the NDW. My spirits were definitely low at this point, but I was able to source some motivation from knowing that the next aid station was the last before the finish.

Nikki and I once again reached the aid station atop Botley Hill, itself a monster of a climb, at the same time. I was given some words of encouragement by a volunteer, who could tell I was feeling a bit shakey. He assured me that, despite aid station markings being slightly inaccurate, in this case there really were only 7 miles to go to the finish, and that, aside from one real climb, the rest was easy running. I can’t stress enough how much of a difference some gentle words of encouragement from a volunteer can make, especially in the latter stages of the race. I left the aid station feeling excited and ready to crush the final miles, although I did slow to a walk for a few minutes coming out of the aid station.

Shortly after leaving Botley Hill, something inside me clicked. It was perhaps because I clocked that my average pace was hovering around 6:59 minutes per kilometre. Not wanting to let it drop below 7, I started to pick up the pace, relatively speaking. It was here that I knew I had judged my efforts well for the preceding 70km, as although I was definitely uncomfortable, I was able to sustain a respectable pace on some flat and downhill sections of road, where fellow racers were slowing to a walk. I was able to stick to my mantra of “If it’s runnable, run (gently)” and even banked a couple of sub-6 minute kilometres, bring my average pace right down.

Finally, we hit the last proper climb of the day, and I welcomed it like an old friend. There is something paradoxically satisfying about hitting a climb towards the end of an ultra. Your legs and mind are freed from the trap of having to keep the pace up, and you can instead focus on power-hiking to the best of your ability.

When we crested the climb, my watch was telling me I had around 6 kilometres to go. By no means a long way, but still long enough to not bear thinking about the finish. This final stretch was, it has to be said, extremely boring.

Field after featureless field, the finish line so close yet so far, it was a great way to practice the kind of meditative ‘blankness’ that can be so useful in ultra-endurance events. I tried to not think about anything at all, other than getting to perhaps the next gate, or the end of the field, or even just to a tree up ahead. Anything to stop myself from slowing to a walk. Just keep jogging, just keep jogging…

Finally, the finish line appeared on my left – on the other side of a field. I knew that this was not the end, though, and that I had approximately a mile to go, through Knockholt Pound village. When I hit the road into town, I saw just up ahead none other than Ben Parkes, he of YouTube fame, running alongside his partner Sarah, who was running the race herself. I broke into an all-out sprint in a bid to catch them up, hitting 4:30/km pace by my Strava record. When I did catch up to her, I shouted, “Well done Sarah!”, forgetting that she had absolutely no idea who I was and that I was likely interrupting quite a special moment for her and Ben.

After making a bit of a fool of myself – I had just run an ultra, mind- but ultimately wishing her well, I pushed on ahead and rounded the final corner into the bowling club and across the finish line in 9:32:51. Although the race was longer and in some ways tougher than the SDW 50, I had maintained a faster average pace of 6:56/km.

Despite feeling at times like it was taking an age, at the finish line I felt like I had just blinked and the race was done. I think this had something to do with my going into the race with no real expectations other than to see how it went. By not having a time in mind, I was able to be quite present throughout, which also meant I had not been focusing too heavily on the finish line.

This was, in the end, my main takeaway from the race – to try and focus on the present moment during longer ultras, and push all thoughts of finishing times out of my head. It’s not always possible, and there will undoubtedly be races in future where a bit of mental maths and careful planning will help me to run a PB. But it was really refreshing to toe a starting line with no expectations other than to see what happened.