Going back down the well, and getting totally FKTd
A 36-mile trail, a bottle of Coke, and a return to the pain cave. All in a day's work
A couple of days before our attempt to run a record, aka a fastest known time (FKT), on the John Musgrave Trail - a 36-mile trail in south Devon with over 5,000ft of ascent - Colum messaged me to say he was ill. He was still hoping to make it, but if not, could we put it off?
I had a busy week coming up, so there was that. I’d set Saturday aside for the run, and I really didn’t have another day to spare. I also hadn’t run all week in preparation, letting my body rest. Rest any longer, though, and I’d start losing whatever fitness I had. Then there was the weather. Saturday looked like the last dry day in a long spell of dry days - meaning the trail would be firm and easily runnable. From Sunday the forecast was for weeks of rain.
Mean as it seemed, it had to be Saturday. If Colum was too ill, I’d just have to go it alone. He could always try again on his own another time.
While the thought of doing it alone wasn’t as appealing, I was primed and ready to roll. The weather was perfect. Luckily, 7pm on Friday night, I got a text from Colum: “I’m in.”
Phew. It was on.
Since I’d finished my run around Ireland just over a year ago, I’d barely run more than 10 miles in one go with any intensity. I’d done the odd longer social run, but for the last year I had been mostly focussing, as regular readers will know, on my 5K speed. But I figured that ultra long distance endurance stayed baked in for a lot longer than speed. And in Ireland I’d run 1,400 miles. Surely 36 miles would be no bother, especially with my added 5K speed?
We had a few different goals ahead of the run. The “A” goal was to beat the outright FKT, which was 5hrs 52mins. I ran my first-ever ultra in 5:52. Granted that was only 33 miles, but it was on a rocky, coastal trail. The John Musgrave Trail was a more runnable trail, with some road sections. Was that enough to cancel out those extra three miles?
Also, back then I was training specifically for ultra marathons. And I was almost 10 years younger. But then again, I had zero experience, back then, of running that far - of what it took to dig that deeply in the pain cave.
If all these things evened out, then 5:52 was possible, if a little tough. However, that was the record for the “supported” FKT, which meant the guy who set it had had help - we don’t know what exactly, but he possibly had people running sections with him, carrying his bag for him, handing him drinks and snacks. There’s also a ferry at one point that you have to call from the riverside with a bell. Presumably he’d had someone do that for him just before he arrived.
We were going to do the run “self-supported”, which meant it was just us, with no outside assistance. We didn’t know how much difference that was going to make, but as far as we could tell there was no “self-supported” record on the trail, so as long as we finished, and we got no help, we would set a “self-supported” FKT.
To qualify for that we had to start and finish together. Colum was generally faster than me, but he wasn’t as experienced over the ultra distances; this was going to be his longest ever run. And he had been ill all week. Hopefully that would even us out speed-wise. In any case, the deal was we’d have to stick together.
I had attempted to set this FKT once before, back in 2020, but I’d got lost so many times I’d had to pull out midway through. Back then the FKT was 6hrs 50mins, so I guess a “B” goal was to beat that. But really, let’s just have a running adventure. Right? Some good old Type 2 fun. Let’s go back down into the well. It had been a while since I’d been down there.
The first section of the run is the hilliest, and we set off at what felt like a manageable, but brisk, pace. We passed a couple of viewing spots where you could look out to sea, which I remember pausing at the first time I attempted this FKT, but which we breezed right on by this time with barely a glance. It felt like we were on a mission. On the charge. This was no sightseeing meander. This was serious.
At one point early on, the GPX map I was following - taken from the FKT website - took a shortcut - which was presumably the route the outright record-holder had taken. We stuck doggedly to the actual trail - using Colum’s GPX taken from the official John Musgrave Trail website - and cursed the lost minutes. Should we tell on the previous record holder? The shortcut had probably saved him a minute or two. We’d just have to see how close we ended up to his record.
(As it happened, a few miles later it seemed he had accidentally taken a slightly longer route, costing him about the same distance and cancelling out the advantage from the earlier shortcut.)
For the first 20 miles or so we ebbed and flowed easily through the countryside, taking turns at the front. It never felt like one of us was pushing too hard, or struggling to keep up. We were able to chat, although we also had periods of pushing a little harder where the conversation petered out.
At one point someone tried to stop us to ask us directions, but we blasted straight on by. “Sorry, we can’t stop.” We’re on a mission.
About five miles in, my left calf started hurting, as though it was about to cramp. But I put it down to my body playing tricks on me, and sure enough, after a few miles, it stopped hurting.
Eating, however, was proving difficult. I’d made myself two peanut butter sandwiches, but we were moving too quickly to eat them. I had plenty of gels, though, and they seemed to go down more easily, so I stuck to those.
About 20 miles in we came to a long descent that I knew well, and I let myself roll. I could tell I was getting ahead of Colum, but he was better on the uphills, so I thought he could catch me up on the next hill. I felt strong, as though I was the one leading the charge, as though I could push on if needed.
At the top of the next hill we’d stashed two bottles of Coke. I’d been telling Colum how great Coke was in an ultra. He said he’d only ever had about three bottles of Coke in his life, and he didn’t drink coffee. So he wasn’t sure. “Trust me,” I said. “Twenty miles in to the run, that Coke will hit the spot.”
Boy was I right. Almost immediately after taking his first few sips, Colum was suddenly away, pushing the pace. We sped through my hometown of Totnes and out the other side, and I was running hard just to keep Colum within striking distance. About a mile after Totnes there’s a very steep hill across a field. Ahead of me, Colum was over the stile like a cat and disappearing up the hill. I put my head down and tried to grind, but he was almost out of sight.
At the top of the hill we came back together (well, he waited for me). We had a long descent next, which was my strength. Hopefully I could gather myself, regroup, and we could push on. But down the hill my legs kept feeling precariously close to cramping, and I had to temper my enthusiasm. Letting myself go felt dangerous. But Colum was gone again, out of sight.
I had said to him that if he felt strong that he should push on and go for the outright record. Right at that moment, I really didn’t mind being dropped. It would mean I could slow down, jog to the finish, all the pressure gone.
(I should point out that early on in the run I had made a mathematical miscalculation, and we mistakenly had it in our heads that 3.20pm that afternoon would be the six-hour mark. Up until then, my watch had been estimating our finish time as somewhere between 3.10pm and 3.20pm - so in our heads, we were looking set to run the route in under six hours, but only just. If Colum pushed hard - if he was feeling that good - he could perhaps get the record outright.
Alas, I had somehow miscalculated, and 3.05pm was the six-hour mark - so we were always quite a way off the outright record. But we didn’t know that until later.)
In any case, I pushed on wearily, with no sign of Colum up ahead. Had he gone for it? Had I been dropped? My other thought was that he was racing ahead to ring the ferry bell, so that it would already be there, ready to leave, when I arrived. That would certainly save us some time, and would be a good use of his extra energy. But if he was doing that, I had to be as close behind him as I could, as the ferry presumably wouldn’t wait for too long.
So, my body really struggling now, I forced myself on. I tottered and stumbled down another tricky descent - one I had flown down many times in the past - even walking at one point, and again feeling as though I was about to cramp up at any moment.
The flat sections were better and I managed to almost tap back into some speed, but then I’d hit a hill, and I’d grind to a trudge once again. I felt weary, destroyed. Did I even need to push? Maybe Colum was long gone.
Then, coming through the village of Dittisham, in the distance I heard the ferry bell being rung. That must be Colum. I had to get a move on. I pushed as hard as I could - taking a wrong turn, goddamn it - back on the route, down a big hill, letting myself go, cramps be damned, through narrow streets, passing some people outside a riverside pub - “are you trying to catch him?” someone said. “I’m trying,” I said, and they all laughed uproariously as though it was the funniest thing anyone had ever said.
And there at the end of the jetty, standing watching as the ferry pulled away, was Colum.
If I’d got there 30 seconds earlier, I’d have made it. Colum looked calm. Serene even. But I could tell, somehow, that he was a little peeved. He’d run on ahead and got the ferry lined up. But there were other passengers. The ferry man had waited a short while, but Colum’s phone had died, so he couldn’t call me; he didn’t know I was just around the corner.
“You should have got on the ferry,” I said.
“No, we’re doing it together,” he said.
We had to stand and wait for 10 minutes for the ferry to return, the clock ticking the whole time.
After that it was just over five miles to the finish. I struggled on as best I could, but it was more of a zombie shuffle that a blazing finish. Colum was bouncing around like a young Border Collie, rushing ahead to open gates for me, clearly well within himself.
Down the final hill into Brixham, with less than a mile to go, my legs finally cramped. I had to stop. I stretched them out. I really didn’t want to have to limp to the finish like this. Luckily, the cramp went away, and we ran the last mile steady enough, arriving into a surprisingly quiet harbour, passing Marietta sitting on a bench waiting to greet us, and touched the statue that marked the end of the John Musgrave Trail. We’d done it. I was expecting the clock to say 6hrs 20mins, but it was only then I realised my miscalculation. We’d finished in 6hrs 34mins. Wow, we were a long way off the outright record.
Just about then, it started raining. Hah. Luckily Marietta had my jacket. Colum’s wife and daughter were there too, with warm clothes for him. We dressed and ate an ice-cream in the rain, overlooking Brixham harbour, feeling equally proud of ourselves for completing such a long run, for pushing ourselves hard, for completing a journey right across south Devon on foot - yet also, at the same time, feeling a little disappointed by those numbers: 6 hours 34 minutes.
In truth, it didn’t feel great to be the weak link. Of course, one of us was always going to be the stronger on the day, but the difference was more marked than either of us had anticipated. I guess I had what they call a bruised ego. Not that I haven’t had that before in an ultra marathon - in fact, in almost every ultra I’ve ever run.
That was partly why I didn’t run ultras so often these days, I thought to myself. I’m just not that good at the really long stuff. It’s such a grind. Sure, it was epic, and I’ll probably remember this day for years to come. But really, did I love it? In that moment, I wasn’t sure.
By contrast, Colum was already planning to return and try next time for the outright record (he has already set up a WhatsApp group, which I’m on - as one of his supporters.) He said that somehow drinking the Coke had flipped a switch in him. He had been struggling at that point and really wanting to stop, when, fired up by the Coke, the thought popped into his head that the best way to stop would be to get to the finish quicker. So he sped up. And he found it was actually easier running faster.
That may sound mad, but I’ve experienced that switch before. You realise that you’re somehow wallowing in the tiredness, and that by rising above it, finding that bounce in your stride again, things actually feel easier. The problem with doing something like this as a pair, is that you’re unlikely to flip that switch at exactly the same moment. And somehow, Colum’s sudden burst of energy and speed just made me feel slower. Being left behind sent me into a spiral from which I couldn’t quite recover. (Well, that was part of the reason for my struggle. Mostly, though, it was doing virtually no long training runs in over a year.)
And so, as far as we know, we have set a new “self-supported” FKT on the John Musgrave Trail. It seems a little disingenuous, since no one else has ever seemingly tried it “self-supported”. But at least now there is a time to beat. And I know at least one person who is already scheming to take it down. So I should get my evidence in quickly to the official FKT website and get myself certified, and enjoy being a veritable FKT holder for a few short weeks at least.
