Soup and Salbutamol

Soup and Salbutamol

A short story about an attempt on the Arc of Attrition

It was 6pm on Saturday evening, and I was sat in the pub with a friend, pint in hand. I was warm and dry. Outside, it was cold, misty, wet and windy. But outside was where I should have been, for this was not just any Saturday, this was Saturday 10th February, Arc of Attrition weekend, and if my race had gone to plan, I would have been somewhere on the north Cornish coast path, heading towards Porthtowan.

Towards my first 100mile Buckle.

But my race had not gone to plan, and in fact had ended in a flurry of violent coughing fits at Lamorna Cove, on the South Cornish Coast, in the wee small hours of Saturday morning; not even half way through the race.

Friday 9th February. 2018. Race day. 

Alarm went off at 05.00hrs. I was ready. I had trained hard for this. I had given up a lot over the past year. A year of planning had gone into this race, and I was excited. I felt slightly off colour, but put it down to nerves. First Breakfast; porridge, toast & coffee, and it was time to go. Thanks to one half of my excellent support crew, Martin & Hilary, I was picked up for an uneventful drive down to Porthtowan for kit check and race briefing. Second and third breakfasts followed. 

More food. 

More fluids. 

On coach to start. 

Nerves and excitement rising. 

Breath. 

Focus. 

You're ready. 

You've got this. 

Game on.

Coverack 12:00hrs: GO!!

I raced from the start, as the going would be tough and the cut offs tight. I wasn't going to be chasing cut offs. Not me. Although mucky underfoot, and a cold wind, it was a gloriously sunny day and I settled into the race. My legs felt a bit weak, but they'll warm up soon enough. Look at the scenery. Rugged splendor of the South West Coast Path, sweeping panoramic views.  

Chat to fellow runners. 

Try not to slip in the mud. 

Eat. 

Drink. 

Move forward.

Kennack Sands, first contact with the other half of my crew, Rachel & Jo. Good to see them. Quick chat. Food, water, carry on. First detour along the lanes. Back on the coast path. 

Up. down. Around. Mud. Rocks . Mud. More mud. A few hills. Steps. Beach. Rocks. River crossings. Bogs. More steps. More mud. 

Can't get no rhythm. 

Very, very scenic. Can't stop to look at the view though.  

Why do my legs feel so weak still?    

Around Lizard Point. 10miles done. All my crew in one place. I love my crew. They will get me through this. Food and onwards. Not far off planned times. The Lizard really is some of the most dramatic scenery on the course, but it is exposed, and the wind is cold. Coming down into Mullion, I needed to put leggings and jacket on. I was beginning to have trouble breathing and eating at this point. Rachel got cross with me for not eating. But it's because she cares I told myself. My chest hurt. I was beginning to cough. Maybe it was just the effect of the cold air on my poor , old, asthmatic lungs.  My 'Bricanyl' inhaler was having little effect. 

Press on though. 

Look at the views! 

Think of the Buckle! 

I so want that Buckle. 

I was slowing down though. Get a move on. 

Loe Bar and the big detour. Got chatting to another runner, Adrian. Headtorch on and prepare for the big slippy mud fest that awaits on the detour; and it did not disappoint. 

Energy sapping fields of mud. 

Mustn't grumble. 

Almost at Porthleven.

The Arc Angels of Porthleven were welcoming and efficient, and between them and Rachel, I got sorted. Soup.  This weekends Nectar of the Ultra Gods. Breathing wasn't good, and the medic decided I needed Salbutamol, and said I should have shit loads of it. So I did. (NB: I am a bit deaf, and may have misheard and misquoted the medic here, but he def gave me some Salbutamol!)

A combination of soup and Salbutamol, and I was back on it. For some time after Porthleven I felt good. I like running at night and find it quite meditative; your vision is limited to the area of your head torch, and, especially during an event, there is nothing to do but move forward and concentrate on your running. The simplicity of it is soothing.  The rhythmic sound of the sea, swishing on the rocks below and the clear shiny stars above, helped bring some much needed clarity. 

This is it. 

This is what it's about. 

Nature and running. 

I'm enjoying this. 

I'm in the zone. 

But another violent coughing fit shook me out of my reflective mindful state.  

Fuck, that one hurt. 

My brain is rattling around I coughed so hard. You're slowing up. Shock those legs into action and run fast for a bit. So I did. But not for long before I coughed again. 

My whole body began to ache with the tell tale signs of a flu virus. 

Tough shit. 

Deal with it. 

Move on.

At various points my crew popped up, Food, water, inhalers and words of encouragement were all dispensed. 

Runners passed. I couldn't keep up. I've still got this though.

Marazion. First costume change. Out of wet muddy shoes and into road shoes for the next stretch which was all on tarmac and mostly flat. Make up some time here. Hilary did the dirty work (thank you!) whilst I ate a porridge pot. I felt good. Let's do this. With renewed energy I trotted along the seafront to the Penzance CP. It was 23:49hrs. Rachel and Arc Angels sorted me out. Soup & potatoes. Medic gave me some more Salbutamol. Out the door, soup and snatched flapjack in hand. 

Only 10mns inside the cut off. 

I was chasing cut offs now. 

This was not in the plan. 

Plans change. 

Deal with it.

As I shuffled through the deserted quay side streets of old Penzance, I re-evaluated my situation. It's OK. You can slog this one out. You've trained well. You have an excellent support crew. You know the course. I remained positive.

Mousehole. Rachel & Jo changed me back into trail shoes (thank you!) Pizza. Water. Encouragement. Back on the coast path proper. 

A technical section. Narrow paths, slippery rocks. Jagged outcrops. Sheer drops. Racking coughs. Getting more violent. 

I can't go on. 

Cough, after cough, after cough brought me quite literally to my knees. 

I was bent over double leaning on my poles. I'm sure I've bruised my frontal lobe with all the coughing, it hurts so much. 

I had to sit down.

Fuck, I feel like shit. 

Week and feeble. Nothing like a highly trained Ultra runner at the top of my game. Oh, how quickly things change. I turned off my lights, took a moment. Ate some food. Drank. It was like swallowing broken glass. I looked at the stars. Listened to the sea. 

Regroup. 

Get up. 

Move forward. 

It was now taking all my energy to stay upright. This isn't safe anymore. Runners caught up. I moved over to let them pass. All asked if I was Ok. Fine, I lied to them, just a bit slow. If I actually told anyone how ill I was now feeling, they may actually stop to help (because that's how considerate ultra runners are), and that would ruin their race. So I lied to them.  I had a phone and an emergency bivy bag if it really did go all Pete Tong.  

As I saw the lights of Lamorna Cove, I knew that was where I had to stop. I was barely moving. My coughing was now relentless and very, very painful. My whole body ached. I still had 60miles to go. This was not something I could tough out. I knew my body well enough to know that I was rapidly becoming proper poorly.   I just hope there would be mobile MudCrew support there like last year. There was. 

And I stopped. 

My race was over, less than half way through. It had ended with a cough and whimper. 

No feats of heroism. 

No stories of fighting sleep monsters. 

No athletic feats of endurance. 

No fireside stories. 

No bragging rights. 

No buckle. 

Just a DNF. 

Just disappointment.  

And a broken dream.

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 As I left the pub on that Saturday night, I reflected on what might have been. Could I have finished? Could I, Should I even, have slugged it out? Then the cold , damp air got into my lungs and I bent over double, coughing relentlessly and painfully.   

No, I couldn't have made it. It was a hard reality, but I had made the right decision.

More importantly. I was safe.

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Saturday 17th February: As I finish writing this, a week after my DNF, I can report that I really have been very ill over the past week. I also managed to infect most of my support crew and my wife (sorry!), who can all attest to how nasty this virus has been. I am also aware that in writing this, it could sound a little bit like one of those sick notes you got your friends to write for you at school, when you were little, so you can miss P.E:

" Dear MudCrew, 

Sorry Murray could not finish the Arc. He had a cold. 

Lots of Love, 

Murray's Mum". 

But I did develop a virus, and I was too weak to finish. But that also begs the question, would I have been strong enough to finish anyway? Maybe, maybe not. The Arc had a 65% DNF rate this year and you really have to be on the top of your game to finish. 

I wasn't. 

And I didn't. 

I guess we'll never know if I could.

Until I return...........