Dropping Out Of Another Ultra Marathon.
Cunts, oh my god. You’re all bastards and dicks and I love it.
I dropped out of another race. This time it was the Thames Path Challenge 100k. It wasn’t like Munich where I cried like a little boy who’d ran out of cake. It wasn’t like The Green Man in Bristol where I just thought “fuck this slippery shit, I’m going back to my Travelodge!”
No. This race was actually enjoyable and I was fucking strong as hell for 50 miles. I’d been trying to refuel at every single rest stop but towards the end it was getting difficult so I was just taking any fuel I could in to get me over the finishing line.
I ran the first 54 miles in 13 hours and soon paid the price for eating too many gels. I got to the final rest-stop, sat down and immediately started sweating profusely and shaking like a shitting dog.
This happened to a lesser extent at London 2 Brighton so I ignored the discomfort as best as I could. It was then that I started vomiting and fucking Christ was I vomiting!
The medical crew were worried about me and asked me to lie down on their bed in their tent. I did what they said but it only made the vomiting worse. They started talking about taking me to hospital and asked me what I’d eaten.
“Lots of those fruit bars and between 15 and 20 Isogels”.
It’s then that their pity and concern ended. I still felt like shit so I lay down on the bed and immediately fell into a deep dark sleep and was only awoken by the strongest and most painful hypnic jerk ever.
Then the sickness came again in waves.
The nausea was as bad as ever so I knew I was gonna have to drop out.
One of the team escorted me back to the finishing line but had to pull over a few times as I couldn’t stop vomiting. Gel after gel was coming up and the fucking taste of it made me want to vomit in between vomits. It tasted like sugary bile. Even thinking about it makes my fucking skin crawl now.
Eventually I made it back to Henley Business School where I was staying for the night, by taxi. The first thing that the taxi driver said was “well done for finishing that!”. He then started giving me the run down about the history of south Oxfordshire and how his people dislike those from Buckinghamshire and the more he talked the more I wanted to paint his taxi yellow with freshly spewed Gu shit.
I was losing my patience. All I could think about shouting was.
Please mate, in the kindest possible way, shut the fuck up. I’ll pay you double if you just fucking drive.
I haven’t shit in 3 days. This is a worry considering what I’ve been putting into my body in the last weekend. The verdict when it arrives won’t be good. I remember what my system was like after the 50k in Belfast. This could be nuclear.
I ran last night as well.
The 4km felt like 40km. Here is some CCTV footage of my running technique.