Castle to Castle – My First DNF
I went into the Fylde Coast Runners event expecting another long day out. I came away with my first DNF — and probably learned more from it than I would have from finishing.
Going into the Castle to Castle 36-mile ultra marathon, I’d managed to convince myself of something that, looking back, was probably complete bollocks: I had enough in the tank.
The weeks between the Skipton Skedaddle and Castle to Castle hadn’t exactly been a masterclass in ultra marathon preparation. I’d gone through a bit of a blip, there had been quite a few social events, and training had taken a back seat far more often than it should have. But I’d finished Skipton, I knew I could cover the distance, and I kept telling myself that the fitness was still there somewhere.
And just as Judas betrayed Jesus, fitness betrayed me. Or did I betray fitness? Probably the latter, but that version makes me sound considerably more responsible for what happened next.
Castle to Castle is a 36-mile ultra organised by Fylde Coast Runners, starting at Clitheroe Castle and finishing at Lancaster Castle. On paper, it sounded brilliant: point-to-point, two castles and 36 miles of running through Lancashire between them. What could possibly go wrong?
Clitheroe Castle – Here We Go Again
Race morning started well enough. It felt cool in Clitheroe and there was no rain forecast, which seemed pretty much ideal. Later in the day, when I was considerably warmer and considerably more miserable, I’d have a slightly different opinion of the weather.
After kit check and picking up my “unlucky” race number, I had a wander around. Looking at everyone else, they all seemed like proper ultra runners, ready for battle. I felt a little overwhelmed, and already that little devil had appeared on my shoulder, quietly asking whether I really belonged on the start line.
Before the start I bumped into one of my customers from work, whose daughter was running the race as her first ultra. He suggested we could perhaps run together for the first few miles, which sounded sensible. A nice steady start, someone to chat to and absolutely no reason to get carried away.
There was only one slight problem.
She was really bloody good.
What I thought might be a gentle few opening miles with someone doing their first ultra turned out to be me trying to keep up with someone who floated up hills like she was on an escalator. She eventually finished third female, which tells you everything you need to know about how sensible it was for me to judge my pace against hers.
Still, apparently I hadn’t learned enough from Skipton about racing my own race.
And Then There Was the Knee
The route took us from the fields below Clitheroe Castle over towards Waddy Fell. It wasn’t too dissimilar to Sharp Haw on the Skedaddle, and because I was still with my new running companion — who, unbeknown to me at the time, would go on to finish third female — I decided running all the way to the top was obviously a sensible idea.
There was another lesson from Skipton I’d apparently decided to ignore as well: stop absolutely hammering the downhills.
I love running downhill. Give me a descent and all sensible thoughts about pacing, preserving my legs and the fact I’ve still got several hours of running ahead of me seem to disappear. Once again, I went too quickly.
By around mile ten, my knee was hurting whenever I ran.
Not ideal when you’ve entered a 36-mile running race. Marathons are hard enough without it feeling like someone is persistently hitting you in the knee with a hammer.
From there, the day started to unravel gradually rather than spectacularly. I ran with several different people at various points, but one by one they would eventually pull away. Normally that shouldn’t matter. It’s an ultra; everyone is running their own race and there will always be people moving quicker or slower than you.
But my head wasn’t in the right place.
Every time somebody disappeared up the trail, it felt like another little defeat. Then people started passing me from behind as well. They were perfectly friendly about it, of course, which somehow made it worse. There’s only so many cheerful “you alright mate?” conversations you can have while hobbling along before you start questioning every decision that brought you there.
The Race Started in My Head
This is probably the biggest thing I’ve taken from the day.
The knee was a genuine problem, but believe it or not, bad knees, ankles, hips, nipples and various other body parts happen in ultra running. Pain and discomfort are part of the game. Somewhere along the way, though, I’d stopped dealing with the race that was actually in front of me and started sulking about the race I thought I should have been having.
Every checkpoint began to feel like somewhere I might stop.
I’d arrive, take stock and somehow convince myself to carry on. Then I’d shuffle through another section, get passed again, feel worse about myself and start thinking about the next checkpoint. Rather than breaking the race down and just concentrating on moving forward, I was looking for an excuse to call it a day.
My fuelling and hydration started slipping as well. That’s something I should know better than to allow, but once my mood had gone downhill, looking after myself properly seemed to go with it. Of course, eating and drinking less when you’re struggling in an ultra is an excellent way of ensuring that you struggle even more.
Eventually, at around mile 20, 4 hours and 10 minutes, I reached a checkpoint where I simply wasn’t willing to continue. With roughly 16 miles still between me and Lancaster Castle, I called it.
My first DNF.
Three letters I’d managed to avoid until then.
So… How Do I Get Back?
There wasn’t a dramatic collapse. Nobody dragged me from the course. I just knew I was done. The towel had finally been thrown in.
Then came the slight complication of discovering that stopping didn’t magically teleport me to Lancaster.
I was told I’d have to make my own way back to the finish. With very little phone signal, that presented something of a logistical challenge.
Fortunately, this race had its own unofficial guardian angel.
Throughout the course there had been a Jack-the-lad builder from Barrow popping up at different points like some sort of mobile unofficial aid station. He seemed to know everyone and had been handing runners gels, drinks, paracetamol and whatever else they needed.
At this point, he added DNF taxi service to his list of responsibilities and gave me a lift to the next checkpoint.
From there, by complete coincidence, I bumped into the customer I’d spoken to at the start. His daughter — the one I’d made the excellent decision to try and keep up with earlier — was still out there having a considerably better day than me. He gave me a lift through to the finish, where I could catch the shuttle bus back.
Problem solved.
Apart from the small matter of having to get onto a bus full of people who had actually finished the race.
Including the winner.
Lovely.
Watching Everyone Finish
Getting to Lancaster Castle was probably the hardest part of the day mentally.
I watched people coming across the finish line and I was angry with myself. Not really because I’d stopped that day, though. With my knee hurting and my head gone, continuing just for the sake of saying I’d finished wouldn’t necessarily have achieved much.
What annoyed me was everything that had happened before I even got to Clitheroe.
I knew my training hadn’t been good enough. I’d allowed social events and drinking to take priority too often, missed training I should have done and then turned up hoping the fitness I’d built previously would somehow carry me through 36 miles.
Part of me had even known beforehand that I probably shouldn’t be on that start line.
But then the other part of my brain had a very compelling counterargument:
I’ve paid for it.
Apparently wasting an entry fee is unacceptable, but travelling across Lancashire to voluntarily suffer for several hours is sound financial planning.
There was another way of looking at it, though. I’d still run more miles that day than the vast majority of people ever would. It was just unfortunate that the company I was surrounded by consisted entirely of people who’d run even further.
Then, to put the cherry on top, the race organiser came over and asked me how I’d found the route.
“I didn’t finish.”
Excellent conversation.
I was even given a finisher’s hoodie, which I had absolutely not earned. The only reason I can bring myself to wear it is because they’d printed the wrong date on it, so technically it isn’t really a Castle to Castle finisher’s hoodie anyway.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
It is a nice hoodie.
To make matters worse, I had a housewarming to attend afterwards, so I couldn’t even go home and quietly pretend the whole thing hadn’t happened. Instead, I got to spend the evening repeatedly answering the inevitable question:
“How did the race go?”
“Didn’t finish.”
And then we’d begin the post-mortem all over again.
What My First DNF Taught Me
There are a few things I need to change.
First, race my own race. I said exactly the same thing after Skipton and then immediately found myself trying to run alongside someone who turned out to be a seriously good athlete. I wasn’t to know she’d eventually finish third female, but that’s exactly the point. It shouldn’t have mattered.
Second, I need to calm down on descents. Running downhill quickly is fun. Wrecking my knee ten miles into an ultra because I’ve been pretending I’m Kilian Jornet is considerably less fun.
And when things start going badly, I need to keep fuelling and drinking. Getting sulky and neglecting the basics isn’t going to magically turn a bad race around. If anything, it’s just digging the hole deeper.
But the biggest lesson happened before race day.
If I want running to be important to me, I need to give it the space it deserves.
That doesn’t mean becoming a hermit or turning down every social event because there’s a Zone 2 run on the training plan. Running is a hobby, not my job. I’m supposed to enjoy it.
But it is a hobby I care about. It gives me something to work towards, gets me outside and does wonders for me mentally. There’s a balance somewhere between enjoying a social life and actually preparing properly for the ridiculous events I keep paying to enter.
I don’t need to stop having a social life, but I do need to stop treating training as the first thing that can be dropped when something else comes along. If I’m going to keep entering ultras, I want to turn up knowing I’ve actually given myself a chance.
Castle to Castle made that pretty clear.
What Happens Next?
For now, the priority is getting the knee right.
Alongside that, I’m changing the way I train and putting much more emphasis on low-heart-rate running. Rather than constantly worrying about pace, I want to build a bigger aerobic base, learn to run genuinely easy and hopefully put a little less strain on myself in training.
I also need to accept that plans change. There will always be nights out, weekends away and things that get in the way of training. The answer isn’t to abandon the plan completely; it’s to find a way to work around them.
Running is a hobby, and hobbies are generally more enjoyable when you’re at least half decent at them.
For ultra running in particular, low-heart-rate training feels like a direction worth exploring. Whether it actually makes me a better ultra runner remains to be seen.
And that’s probably a story for another post.
Castle to Castle gave me my first DNF. I’m certainly not proud of it, but I’m also not going to pretend it didn’t happen. Looking back, the result wasn’t really decided at the checkpoint where I stopped. A lot of the damage had been done in the weeks beforehand.
Sometimes the race that goes wrong teaches you more than the one where everything goes right.
Next time, though, I’d quite like the medal.
