The Ridgeway 86: An Open Letter to my Father

Dear Dad,

It's going to be a long time before most of what has happened  has made sense, but I've written this, partly to let you know what happened while you were asleep, and partly just to let it out. It starts with a phone call...

"Hey Ben, it's Nik. Dad...Dad's had an accident.”

These are the words that echo around my head, crashing like waves into my subconscious. I approach the start line with Brian and distract myself from the soundscapes in my head. I wasn’t even planning on coming to this race, but something told me I had to. My heart is not here, but I had to. Flowers grow through rubble. So can I.

Brian says something I don't quite catch and I snap out of it. He introduced himself as I got on the train from London to Tring. I wasn’t particularly keen on company with the mood I'm in, not wanting to bring anyone else down, but he was friendly and I very quickly felt my mood turn around just from the chance to chat with someone who didn't know what was going on with me. By the time we got to Tring I was secretly thanking him for shaking me out of my funk.

The start line

There are minibuses transporting runners to the start and plenty of time to mill about before we set off from Ivinghoe Beacon at midday. This is the official starting point of the Ridgeway national trail. Today we’ll be attempting all eighty six miles of it.

That said, I’ve told myself no pressure. So if I do all of it, well, I do all of it. If I don’t I don’t. There is a short race briefing then we’re away. We saw that Dan Lawson was on the start line, who is liable to run this race extremely quick, and he charges off the front from the go. The speedier pace trickles it’s way down the field and soon enough we find ourselves going quite a bit faster than expected.

On the approach to the start a guy who recognised my shorts from a previous run in the Gower came up to say hello and wonder if I remembered him. I did and it’s a nice chance to catch up as we ran together for quite a while that day. As we reach the start line another woman who saw the shorts at the Stour Valley Path race two weeks ago also comes to say hello. I ask how she got on and she was second lady so clearly after passing me at the second checkpoint she went ahead to storm it!

Where's (the) Wally.

I now notice her not far away. We’re about a mile in. I point her out to Brian saying we should probably avoid trying to keep up with her if we’re to avoid the hurt locker early on. He agrees. There’s quite a buzz in the air and we’re swapping places with a few people here or there, finding ourselves with the guy from the Gower and one of his friends.

The starting section is quite undulating, but most of the runners just take it at a similar stride to normal flat pace, given that it’s fresh legs at the beginning here. We trade places and pair up with other people for a while and just generally chat to whoever is around. The theme of the day seems to be the good weather.

There is a lot of nervous energy and Brian’s watch is beeping at us quite often as he has the virtual pacer on, set to tell him if he’s going too fast or slow. He has it set to be halfway between a twenty hour finish and the womens course record, with the intention of holding that pace as long as possible then slowing down. Personally I’m unsure how long I’ll be able to hold that pace.

But soon enough we’re three miles, or five kilometres in and the warm up has begun. The legs are loose and the countryside is open. It’s very much an old Roman Road style trail, and very well maintained compared to what I’m used to with other races. Combining that with the fact that the trail is pretty hard packed from the good weather and you’ve got a pretty runnable trail.

The countryside is much nicer than I expected, with good views out over the county, reminiscent a little of the South Downs where you get great views over the countryside. The field thins out a little and there’s less jostling for space which means we can focus a bit more on relaxing and enjoying the day out.

It’s not actually too long before we find ourselves pulling up at the first aid station. We pushed the first ten kilometres in an hour, which feels dangerously close to how I felt at the Stour Valley Path right before I blew up two weeks ago, but it felt okay so we pressed on for the next few kilometres and I didn’t say anything.

Now that we’re here, I can feel my legs being a bit more leaden than normal, but nothing I wouldn’t expect having done a hundred kilometres so recently. We stop and Brian fills up his Tailwind nutrition bottles, I fill up mine and as he’s still getting ready I take a few moments to just grab some jaffas cakes and a slice thingie to try to shove as much food and water in as I can while I’m still feeling good an can stomach anything.

I’m thankful for the rest to be honest as well. Having pushed it a bit it’s a good chance to just stop and check through to see how the legs are feeling. We thank the volunteers then head off. We chat excitedly for a few minutes, then there is also a few minutes silence.

"Hey Ben, it's Nik..." 

No, not yet. I'm not ready for it yet. Flowers. Rubble. Remember that instead.

I break my thoughts with some toilet humour. There's nothing like a good poo joke on the trails is there? Hey look, there's even a cow poo right there.

We've lost most of the other people that were around us, but to be honest I'm fine with that. It's nice being a bit more alone out here and letting the field thin out a little.

The sun is still shining pretty bright, but after burning on the Stour and looking a little like  a baked potato I remembered sunscreen this morning so that hopefully my head is okay until the night section. It seems to be working so far.

We get to one particular climb that goes on a little bit longer than the ones before and we start to talk about our past. He's a New Yorker, so an immigrant like me, and we get to talking about what made him move and what kept him here, his family and children. With three of his own and four step-children it's interesting to hear the perspective of a man with a big family, so different from where I myself am at in life.

We reach the top, and there is a large monument. Looking closer I think it is a reference to the Boer war, but I can't see in too much detail. There is a nice path up to it then as we crest the hill there is a stunning view out over I don't even know which county.

We pass some people out for the day and see a family having a picnic. I mention the fact that I often find it strange as you see people out and about. So if you're in a race you get a lot of people cheering and clapping, so you look out for people having a picnic and keep an eye on them in case they do so, with the intention of being ready to thank them for the support.

But then if they don't support, they just stare at you nonplussed. As you stare back at them looking like you're some arrogant, attention seeking runner looking for kudos when in truth you just didn't want to be rude just in case they clapped. They look at you as if to ask what the hell you're looking at their family just a little too lingering for. If you haven't already noticed, I get a lot of time to my thoughts on the trail to over analyse and make light of these sorts of gormless situations.

We go down a big field with some rather large cows. They couldn't care less though so we go right through the middle of them. As we do so, Brian mentions after my joking that his guts aren't feeling too good.

I laugh at first then his face doesn't move and I ask if it's serious. He's not sure. Uh oh. We carry on and I just try to keep talking and fill the gap. I talk about races I've done, my thoughts on training, my thoughts on kit. Anything to help ease the strain. Get it...ease the strain? I crack myself up.

We get to another field and Brian says it's game over. He's not got any supplies so I get out my shit kit and hand some paper over. I stop briefly myself, then walk slowly down the field.

Brian arrives back a few minutes later looking a fair bit fresher than ten minutes ago and I'm pleased to hear it. He gets back to his normal chatty self, but it does seem like something is still playing on his mind. We both ignore it for now and just keep the focus on pacing. The short break was actually quite a relief as we'd not really relented on the pace at all even after saying we would.

We carry on a few more miles and then find a town, I'm not sure which. Brian's feeling it again, so affords himself the luxury of a pub toilet, where I go as well just in case as I've no idea when I'll next find a toilet, but it turns out I don't need to and I'm just a weirdo hanging out in a toilet when he doesn't need to.

We carry on again, having been passed by a few people, but I'm honestly not bothered and not too long after we find ourselves the second checkpoint in the woods.

This time I take a look at the piece of paper we were handed at registration with the checkpoint times and facilities listed on and note that we're only half an hour inside the cut off. I hear one of the volunteers mention they're only waiting on about six people or so and I wonder how the hell we've ended up so considerably far behind, as even with a couple of stops we've not been going that slow.

I decide it must be down to there being a ten o'clock start time as well, so the cut offs must be made to be loose for them early on and tight for the later starters, to then even out later in the day.

Again, I'm fairly quick at filling up and grabbing a goody bag that they're handing out, but am more than happy for a couple of minutes standing break. I feel it's important to keep myself happy and fed early on today and not be bothering about the time. It works. I feel better for the moments standing.

Brian is chatting to the volunteers and I point out the food table as he doesn't seem to be terribly keen on anything after what the Tailwind nutrition powder seems to be doing to him. I point out some solid food can't be a bad thing and he grabs some, clearly already having the same idea.

There is another pair who we've gone back and forth a couple of times with who are leaving at a similar time and we keep them roughly in our sights as they seem to be moving a lot more comfortably but slower than us currently, but we're taking more walk breaks.

We go over an overpass and there is clearly a right turn somewhere and the two pairs of us wander around a little wondering where it is, with the fields on either side of the road having paths. In the end we just opt for the road which proves right when we're rewarded with an acorn symbol on a finger post, signifying the national trail.

We swap pairs for a bit and chat to each other then as we reach another road with a confusing finger post notice Tim Mitchell, the race director, driving off and pointing us across the field, jokingly threatening a disqualification if we go down the road.

We don't, we find the spray paint arrows pointing across a freshly ploughed field and again I'm reminded back to the Stour Valley a couple of weeks ago and all the fields in that.

I take the lead over this field which is normally something I don't tend to do as much. It's not that I don't like it, I just tend to find myself wondering if the pace is too fast or too slow for the people I'm with and if others are happier in front I generally am happy for them to do so. Basically I over analyze the situation when I really don't need to.

But now I'm bossing it over this field. I don't look back until the far side when I just double take to see if everyone is still with me, which they are, spread over twenty metres or so.

We form back into pairs again and as Brian and I go through a narrow lane we see officials at the far end. I wonder what they're doing here, we're too close to the last checkpoint for this to be another one.

We reach them and say hello and it becomes apparent they're just standing sentry at a rail crossing and taking numbers. We proffer the best smile we can manage after twenty odd miles and proceed over the other side.

We're now ahead of the other chaps, but can see them just behind us. As we open out into another field that is quite sprawling we see a couple of others ahead in the distance.

It's ever so slightly uphill and we slow to a walk as the other chaps catch us. They head on and we keep the walk. We pass an extremely old lady with a bib number on and I say well done to her. I genuinely mean it. She looks like she hit seventy in the seventies and is now quite a few miles deep in this. She has quite a cheery smile back for me as I pass.

There is quite a steep hill which I press on just ahead of the chaps, now that I've finally got a bit better at uphill technique after all the practice this year.

I stop at the gate at the top and hold it open for the guys and wait for Brian. He comes up looking defeated. He tells me all the energy has left him and he thinks he's done. There's no point trying to push on feeling like this and he tells me to carry on.

I'm unsure what to do here. I've really enjoyed the company, and don't want to desert him. But at the same time, he is telling me he's had enough and he looks like he means it. Aside from that, we're pushing the cut offs and unlikely to make the next one at our current pace.

I ask firmly if he's positive this is the decision he wants to make, and whether or not it's possible it might be worth us trying to gut it out to the next one in case it picks up.  He says he's sure, and to press on and try to catch the chaps up.

With regret I shake his hand and we bid each other adieu. I feel really bad leaving him, but it's clear his decision is made. Oddly, considering my mood when we got here today, I'm feeling quite resolute that I'd like to carry on.

I do catch the guys up and tag along to the third checkpoint. Their pace is not too dissimilar to what I was doing with Brian so it's not too bad a switch, though my legs are feeling a bit leaden. I think having done a hundred kilometre race two weeks ago may not have been the wisest move, with the soreness setting in quite early today at around ten miles. 

That said, it feels like that's important training at this point. It's not going to make me faster, slower if anything, but this year my focus has been solely on endurance. I used to be faster, but there's not point in fast if you DNF every race is there? Well, that's what I found at my last DNF, anyway.

So I listen to my body, I feel it creak a little and I just let it go. I let myself enjoy what I'm doing. We hit the next checkpoint around a marathon in. This one doesn't have as massive selection, but there are all the necessary bits and importantly some coke which I knock back along with a few other bits and bobs. I let the marshal know Brian's number and tell them he's fine but may be a little late just so they don't worry.

This time, stopping, I really do feel it in my legs. It doesn't bother me, it's just earlier than normal, which is fine. We just stand there a minute to stop and laugh at each other, then set off again.

The first thought is how close we are. We've gained ten minutes and are now forty minutes up on the cut off. It does a bit of a number on all of our heads as none of the three of us feel like we've been going that slow at all so we can't understand why there are only a handful of people behind us.

No matter, though, we press on. The short stop has given me a fair bit of a boost. I didn't really realise how much I was feeling it and looking forward to a stop after the slightly slower pace which then picked up when I started running with these fellas.

I think of Brian and hope he's okay, he seemed to be accepting of the decision but it's never a fun one to take. Apparently, that Tailwind nutrition really lives up to its name.

We take the pace ever so slightly easier for a bit. One of the boys is starting to feel it in his legs a bit and seems to have taken a bit of a turn as far as mood goes, but personally I'm more than happy to keep this slower pace and save the energy for later on, even if it does put me into the position of chasing cut offs. Right now I couldn't care less.

We start to talk about how we're feeling about the day and I mention I'm quite unbothered. My feeling yesterday was to not even turn up, but I knew it was also about family and staying strong, so turned up. Now I'm feeling like I've done okay, nearly fifty kilometres, so the pressure is off.

I can quit anytime I like from here on in and not feel bad. I say this out loud, but conscious of the fact it's always good to keep as upbeat a mood as possible, I point out that feeling like that means that I feel alright and am actually enjoying myself a fair bit more than I would be otherwise. Basically, thinking about quitting is helping me not follow through and do it. The psychology of a runner eh? Or maybe it's just me.

"Hey Ben, it's Nik. Dad...Dad's had an accident. He took a downhill too fast and he's hit his head."

There's a long pause and I can hear him crying. I'm jolted back to five in the morning a week ago. Friday the twenty first of August to be exact.

"He's just gone in for emergency brain surgery. We don't know what's going to happen."

My world came crashing down in that moment a week ago.

As we're walking an uphill, I let it out and explain the situation to Sam, though I don't go into too much detail. I don't want to cry on the trail here. Not yet. I need to stay strong. So I just mention it, and explain that's why I'm feeling the way I am about this race right now. We move on to another topic.

We make our way further and further along, just keeping a steady pace to try to maintain our energy whilst not dropping too far behind. As we're going through a field, about to start another climb, the other chap says in a very determined voice that's it, he's had enough and he's going to drop at the next station.

We try to coerce him into changing his mind, telling him it may be worth just resting at the checkpoint and deciding there, but he's resolute that he's not enjoying things and would rather make sure he can get home at a normal time and live to run easy another day sooner rather than later. He seems definite so we don't argue the point with him.

Soon enough that aid station arrives at the top of another hill, and he sticks to his word asking if he can get a ride to the halfway point so his wife can pick him up. I tell Sam I'm unsure what to do as well, thinking I may do the same.

If I drop now I can get a lift to halfway, Goring-on-Thames, and manage to get the last train home. If I don't it's going to be a lot more tricky. I tell Sam I'm going to sit for five minutes and he's happy to wait. I grab a date and oat cake thing, which is great, and a couple more jaffa cakes and coke and sit with chappie number two, who ask what I'm doing. 

I again say I'm unsure then when Sam comes over I tell him we may as well head off. Snap decisions are the best in these situations, they get you out the door. I'm going to have to go to Goring anyway as that's where my bag is. So I may as well run and decide there. It's twelve miles this stretch, which is part of what was holding me back as mentally that's quite a jump, so I'm glad to be back on the road quickly.

My legs are extremely stiff on getting up again, but there's a nice little road section so the creaks and groans ease their way out and Sam and I find our rhythm again. We both mention how surprised we were at how quickly the other fellow dropped as he seemed to be vaguely not enjoying it but nothing you can't work through. I guess the thing is, after fifty odd kilometres the thought of another ninety doesn't really appeal too much.

But we're out of the checkpoint and mentally this is quite a big boost. I knew that was going to be one of the harder ones and it's done now. Sam goes in front a fair bit now and keeps himself, and me, going with a pretty good pace. A much better one than I would have managed on my own.

We talk at times but we also have quite long stretches to ourselves, for me just content in the fact that we're moving along at a good clip. The night starts to draw in a bit and we do quite a long stretch along Grims Ditch, which is quite nice through some woods.

I think of home a bit at this point. I think of what I saw when I went back to Christchurch after the earthquakes and I remember the day a couple of years later, when people were finally allowed back into the central city, I stood there by the 'Hak', the nickname for the place we used to hang out as teenagers, trying to figure out where exactly it was amongst the rubble. Hours, years even I spent here and now I couldn't even tell exactly where it was.

I remember searching around all the streets of my youth, unable to fully understand which road I was on, as there was just holes in the earth where the buildings and landmarks used to be. I searched, to work out where the Hak was and found the tree that was next to it, still growing strong. It had lived a long time before the earthquakes and stands strong today. I remember looking at my feet and seeing a small flower poking out of the rubble and reminding myself that adversity is only our downfall if we let it be. I can choose to look at the rubble in life or I can choose to look at the flowers coming through.

I trip over a tree root and nearly go flying. The light has dimmed considerably. We're kind of bumbling about in the forest not really able to see what we're doing. We both mention it may be time for head torches but neither of us grab for one.

It's preferable to leave it as long as possible, but it's definitely getting close. We start chatting again, I check in to see how he's feeling and it's good, and I'm actually still feeling about the same, which suggests I'm running within my means and can't be a bad thing.
Another trip up and it's definitely time for the head torches to come out. We're getting closer and closer now and the section is going by pretty well. Another mile gets ticked off and we're still just keeping the same pace.

We've been going steadily for about ten miles now on this stretch without any real walk breaks, so I can start to feel my energy levels get low. I reach in my bad for another of the little packets of chicken goujons I've brought then find the apple turnover I forgot about and get that out instead.

It does the trick. I'm surprised at how well I've been eating today. At each aid station I've got at least a bit of food down and have been steadily getting through the reserves I brought as well one little bit at a time. I brought quite a variety this time, with chocolate bars and Pepperami topped off by Babybells.

The head torches are well and truly coming into their own by the time we start to see the lights that suggest we're nearing the checkpoint. We reach a massive river and it takes me a couple of minutes to even register this is the Thames. There's a massive overbridge we go under, eery at night and then the lights start to get that little bit closer until we're back on roads and moving through the outskirts of the town. Then we go down a lane and pop out at the main road to see high-vis vests and a welcoming building.

It's the first checkpoint that’s inside, so we grab our drop bags and take a pew at a trestle table. We're offered hot food and I don't have to be asked twice before a jacket potatoes with beans and cheese is laid in front of me. They've taken my water bottles to fill up and I start getting to work at transferring my stuff, swapping out for my better head torch and replenishing for the same amount of food reserves as I left the start line with.

I take a break and redo the tape on my feet, which are looking worse for wear, but no blisters and swap shoes from the Inov8 Race Ultra 290's to the Skechers GoRun Ultra's. After that I try to cram as much food in my gob as I can while Sam is getting ready as well then we're ready to go.

We’re away before I even get a chance to remember I was going to quit here, but in truth it was never really going to happen anyway. Once you’ve had a sit down and fresh gear and food it’s always easy to carry on and we set off at quite a good pace, happy and chatty again.

I feel pretty well rejuvenated after taking such a good break that it almost feels like we're starting fresh again. It's definitely well into the night now so there isnt a hell of a lot to see, but it feels good to be on the move again and over that mental barrier of wondering whether or not I'd be able to carry on after the halfway point. Now I don't have that easy option to leave again. Now maybe I'll finish? Who knows.

We chat intermittently, but mostly we're both happy to just chug along and get the miles moving. I'm secretly pretty glad to have found Sam as I likely wouldn't have bothered carrying on otherwise.

"Hey Ben, it's Nik. Dad's had an accident. He fell off his bike and hit his head."

I look around me and there is only darkness. The demons rear their head out of nowhere and I fall behind a little to mask how I'm feeling. I just take a moment to let myself remember what's going on and why I'm here. The point I'm trying to make. To myself, mainly, but to my family too. I try to stay strong. I try.

The next section goes pretty smoothly for us without too much issue. We chat, we walk and we run as well. Sam is still keeping a cracking pace. Very solid, not speeding up or slowing down and I just tag along for the ride. It's going so smoothly that we find ourselves at the next checkpoint at Bury Down after what feels a fairly short time. I put the demons back to rest for now.

I've been pretty keen for the checkpoint for a while. Mainly, I'm keen to use the toilet, so when we see it appear I'm pretty quickly alerted to the fact that won't be happening in a hurry. Basically, the checkpoint is a pagoda in a field. Being dark, I can't even work out how the hell they got the stuff here as it literally seems to be in the middle of nowhere but hey, I'm not complaining. Free food, I'll take that. There is even a runway made of glowsticks to welcome us in.

There are some seats and one guy looking decidedly like he is going to drop out. He even has the blanket of death on. That's right, he's opened up the foil safety blanket. He looks okay, but I'm guessing it's his mind that's going. I can relate.

So I opt not to sit down and just eye up the food. Sam is keen to be gone quickly but I hoof down some potatoes dipped in a little too much salt and give my best lemon-face. A quick cup of soup and we're on our way again.

I'm quite glad that the checkpoint is set up the way it is as it has everything you need without the comfort, being out in the open, meaning you can't easily relax and quit. A perfect balance, so I don't quit and it only briefly enters my mind.

The next checkpoint is Sparsholt Firs, about nine miles away. It's quite a big gap but the hardest part is always leaving the checkpoint and we've done that. The guy who has the foil blanket on comes up behind us and starts chatting and it's nice to have the extra company.

Over the past checkpoint I developed my speedy walking pace a bit more, meaning that I can sort of shuffle and sort of wobble to a level where I'm keeping almost the same pace as if I were running.

I mention to the new guy this is roughly the pace we're managing to keep and he says he wishes he could keep up with such a good pace. I tell him it's not me, it's Sam. A few minutes later though we do notice him drop off.

We settle back into a rhythm once more and just get cracking. For the last section we were almost on our own the entire time, but now we find we're starting to catch up with people.

The normal thing to do is to build a buffer it seems and then when nighttime hits, you just slow to a walk for the whole evening until you pick the pace up again in the morning. Kind of like the way the natural body clock works, you go to a similar tune.

Not us tonight, though. We keep pretty much the same pace right through this section  this is one massive benefit to having gone a bit slower earlier in the day and paced it better, we're actually feeling like we still have a fair bit of energy. This also means that some of those people who went off really fast, are now starting to feel it and slow down a bit more. So where before we were nearly last, despite feeling good, and not understanding what was going on, now we're starting to pick people off as the evening catches up with them more.

In truth though, I still know it's Sam carrying me through. I mention it but he's very diplomatic about it saying it's a team effort. It's definitely not though.

The pace stays steady enough, though, that we get to Sparsholt Firs without me moaning too much. I definitely am starting to feel a lot more tired here though and sit down.

The checkpoint staff ask if I want anything and I say I'm fine for the minute. I almost instantly start to freeze. I ask for some coke and a bit more food, just a couple of nibbles and am brought more soup.

I can feel it, though. I feel the tiredness creep up on me and I feel the lethargy creep in. I ask how long Sam wants to stay and he says he's happy to chill for a bit but maybe not too long.

I'm shivering so much that they grab me a duvet and everyone is chatting away. There are a good dozen of us under the pagoda now and someone shouts out that it's the kiwi guy again and well done for carrying on. He was with a woman earlier who recognised the shorts, who hadn't met me, but had read my blog.

I don't recognise him too well, I've been in my own world a bit today but clearly it's no secret I've been talking of dropping like a sissy at every checkpoint. If I had a reason it would be fine, but not being in the mood is clearly just me being a sissy.

But right now, you know what, I don't care. I am a sissy and I'm going to drop here. I send my brothers a message, as they've been following me on the tracker to tell them I'm out.

Right now I'm so tired that my head is lolling from side to side, I can barely hold it up and I just don't care.

"Hey Ben, it's Nik. Dad's had an accident."

I just don't want to do this right now. I want to be strong for my family, who really need me, if not in body but in spirit and resolve, but if I'm entirely honest right now I just don't want to. It seems so strange. This is a race completely unrelated to my situation with Dad, but I guess I wanted to come here today to remind the family that even though times are tough, we still have to stay positive and fight through adversity. We can beat it if we don't let ourselves be beaten first.

I want to go home, though. I just...I just don't want to be strong. I want to be able to cry and I want to let what's happened a week ago just dissappear. I don't want to be an adult, I want my dad and I want him to come and fix everything.

But he can't. And I can't do what I want, and I'm not embarrassed when I tell Sam to go on ahead and that I am dropping out. He goes, reluctantly, but he goes. We wish each other well and I'm pleased to see him head off looking strong.

Tom sends me a message spurring me on, followed by Nik, only he doesn't send a message to me, he copies and sends back the message I sent to Dad a week ago.

''Hey Dad,

You've given us all quite a scare. When I was about to finish a race I remember you telling me no matter what to keep pushing, to crawl if I had to. I've seen you physically crawl over finish lines before and we need you to keep that resilience. Come on, Dad, it's time to crawl this one in. Keep going. Keep strong. I miss you. I love you"

When I sent that message, I wish I could say it was about a race. It wasn't. When I sent that message all we knew was that dad's head was split open after a crash at very high speed on a mountain in Ecuador and that they, the neurosurgeons, were trying to do something to fix it. When you hear something like that, you think the worst. We couldn't expect much more. No one lives through that sort of damage. When I sent that message, as far as I was aware, Dad would never read it and I was just hoping for a miracle.

When I sent that message I was asking him not to die.

So when Nik sent it back to me it did something. It thumped me, right in my heart. The foil man has arrived a while ago and sat down next to me. He gets up and is about to carry on and I just get up to join him. He looks surprised after seeing me wobbling and whingeing in my chair looking defeatist. He asks if I'm going to join him and I tell him I am. A minute later we're off.

I don't explain why the sudden change, and I don't really need to, I just start moving again and we are just happy to get down to business. He's quite excited about the fact he managed not to drop and I'm suddenly determined. It's now four in the morning and we're a bit over a hundred kilometres deep into this thing.

A message from Dad's friend on the race.

I start to think I might actually finish. I think about why I'm here and suddenly my mood has changed in vast amounts. I'm chatting away as if it's the beginning of the race, so much so that we miss a turn and I end up leading us two hundred metres in the wrong direction, but we're so excited to have got out of the checkpoint neither of us care.

It turns out he was also at the SVP 100 a couple of weeks ago, but did the opposite and went for the later start, unfortunately not quite being quick enough to stay ahead of the cut offs. He's also doing the Ring O Fire race next weekend which I also briefly toyed with, but decided against as it's a hundred and thirty five miles over three days, and I'm already feeling burnt out.

We see a frog in the road and it looks quite eery in the darkness. I'm pretty desperate for the toilet, and with the sun about to come up I decide it's probably best to do so now while I still have a bit of privacy so I duck off for a couple of minutes, then spend a few more running to catch up.

As we were leaving the last checkpoint, Josh, as he's now introduced himself as, said he was keen to just walk most of it in, and given the mood I'm in I'm quite happy to follow suit with him on that. I just want to finish. Overcome. Beat the demons. Beat adversity.

We settle into a little bit of running and a lot bit of walking and just try to keep talking to take out minds of what's going on. The sun slowly comes up and once again we're treated to views of the lovely English countryside.

Dawn is one of the marvels of ultra running for me. It's such a surreal feeling when you've been going, for however many hours, through the slump of the night and then suddenly get this euphoric rush when the new day greets you and the birds begin to sing. Because of my head space today I find it hard to enjoy it the same way as I normally would but I make sure at a couple of points to just stop and look out and try to remember not just to be insular but also to look outside of my own world and see what is happening in the world around me, and to take in my surroundings. See the dawn and embrace it. A new day is arriving and with it, hope.

It's been very easy over the last day to not do that. To not look out. To see the glass half empty and want to smash the full one, and I'll be honest that I'm not entirely successful in reminding myself to look at the positive. I can look at the mud and puddles on the ground or I can look at the frog hopping happily along through it. I try to look at the frog. Flowers grow through rubble. I need to remember that.

The mud makes me realise, though, that I need another toilet break. It's not urgent, but it does start to worry me that's it's only been half an hour since I dug a cat hole in the ground. If I get seventy five miles deep into this thing, through all these mental barriers I've put on myself, only to then have to pull out because I feel like crapping myself I'm going to be mighty upset. So I go and sort it out, then run to catch Josh up.

We reach the penultimate checkpoint and it's a nice bright day. They have a pit fire going and smiles aplenty. We sit down for a few minutes and I try to eat what I can, but I'm not massively hungry as for the first time ever I've been able to eat lots and consistently throughout the race.

The gap to the next checkpoint is about twelve miles, so is mentally a tough one to get my head around and to not want to drop, but the sun is out and it feels good. With only twenty seven kilometres left I think this is possible and for once I don't think I want to drop.

A few more minutes and we're back on the road. The conversation is not quite as flowing as before and my feet are definitely starting to hurt a fair bit more, but the easier pace makes the going not too bad. There is definitely a lot more swearing going on from both of us though, and increasingly more offensive. Luckily there are only cows out here to complain.

We catch up with the lady who calls me the kiwi guy from the blog, and her friend. As I'm slightly ahead I get chatting to her a bit. They've been running together for nearly the whole race but he is struggling with blisters and she is starting to worry about him.

We're fine in terms of the cut offs but only if we keep moving at a reasonable pace. She's worried that her friend won't be able to keep up with that pace. The four of us bounce back and forth a little spread out for a few minutes, then Josh and I move ahead slightly.

We keep the pace easy and the swearing fairly continuous. As Josh did the Race to the Stones last year, an event that takes in the last hundred kilometres of the Ridgeway he's remembering the route here or there. As it was a year ago, though, it starts to do a number on his head as he keeps remembering a pylon and directions around it that just doesn't seem particularly forthcoming, and is really confusing him. I haven't got a clue either way so I just go with it.

There is an extremely long straight uphill section here and, whilst it's not a massive gradient, we definitely feel it on tired legs, so are pleased to reach the top and what we expect to be the checkpoint, only to find its not there on the road. Cue more swearing.

Then sure enough, we round a corner and make it to the final checkpoint. I'm feeling pretty good right now and there is only another ten kilometres to go. That last section was long, but as it wasn't through the night, it didn't feel as long as it could have and we're both grinning like wildcats as we say hello to the aid station staff.

Then they ask if we want a hot dog and oh-hells-yeah we do. I wolf that mofo down and its a right pick me up. I down a couple of cups of coke and then the lady of the pair we passed a while ago arrives in tears.

The whole thing is just emotionally quite a lot for her and to be honest I can relate. In a bizarre way seeing someone really struggling but really determined to finish gives me more strength.

I guess at this point I'm learning a bit that I draw a lot of strength from those around me. Not necessarily physically right next to me, but also spiritually and today in a lot of ways I'm blessed enough to have both.

So when Josh cheekily asks for another hot dog I do the same, then we're off. We're given the directions that we're to continue on the Ridgeway until we get to a fork whereby we take a right turn into the finish and with that we're away.

The final stretch. A day ago, I really didn't think I had it in me to even get past the first checkpoint and here I am doing it. I'm going to get to the finish and in all honesty it has nothing to do with me, it has all to do with the people around me. Both physically and in spirit.

Today, I managed to spend the whole day running with very different people, all of whom were amazing at keeping me motivated and enjoying the physical side of the race, and I was lucky enough to have the support of my brothers among others.

The conversation is still there but a lot of it is grunts now. We're both really happy to be about to finish, but the long straight road is playing a little on my head and the ruts in the ground are playing on Josh's body. But we keep ourselves motivated and pushing on.

We're passed by a trio of fellas but neither of us care at all. We're just moving on, enjoying the day. We go over another hill then Josh points into the distance and tells me he think we just follow this straight road for another few kilometres then turn right to where he's pointing and find the finish. So basically, the end is quite literally in sight.

We plod on, even jogging a little here or there then as we're going down another little hill I see the sign to indicate the turn off to the finish.

"Hey Ben, it's Nik. Dad's had an accident."

I get a message from Nik and it's a photo of Dad laid up in hospital, bald and frail with tubes coming out of him. I'm in front of Josh at this point and it all hits me again. I break down and I'm not ashamed to say I start to cry. For me, running has never been about fitness, it's been about overcoming the demons in my head. It's transposing the spiritual hardship we all go through into a physical context, squaring up to it and saying "Fuck you, I'm the boss today. You won't get the better of me."

I think of Dad, and wonder where he is and what's going on in his head. On the evening of that same Friday, Tom called me to tell me that he wasn't going to die, that he had come through the surgery and they were expecting a full recovery. I then called my Grandma to let her know that she wasn't going to bury her son that day. Before I could get anything out I just broke down on the phone to her, not able to say anything for what seemed like an age but was probably only sixty seconds. I don't think I've ever cried in front of Grandma and I'm not sure she knew what to do with a grown man bawling down the line to her.

Apparently when Dad opened his eyes he was told his sons we're thinking of him and he smiled before going back to sleep and it's that thought that comes back to me now. The last week has been by far the worst of my life, but he is awake now and starting to talk a little.

Dad was doing a cycle race from the top to the bottom of South America, and was going downhill when he hit a pothole and all of our lives changed forever. Nik flew out to see him and the reason I set up the tracking for me on this race is so that he can follow along with Dad and keep the family racing alive. To show that the Kissel's can be knocked but not beaten no matter how hard we fall. Nik sends me a message to tell me Dad is willing me on now that I'm nearly there.

We take the right turn and go down the hill. We hit the bottom then go over another little one and find ourselves running past the historic stone circle, along the lines of Stonehenge though not quite as majestic, and we're both pretty jubilant as we reach the town and various people are cheering us on.

We hit the final straight and the organisers actually pick up the banner normally reserved for the winner, Josh grabs my arm and we raise them to the sky as we grab the tape, eight six long miles done, our medals, and for me a huge amount of personal humility and respect for these fragile lives we live.

Dad, the day before the accident.

A week after the race I got in touch with Tim Mitchell, the Race Director, to talk about my medal. I was planning to get it cut up into three pieces, one each for you, Tom and Nik, but I wanted to get the official lanyards so I got in touch. I didn't explain why, and mentioned I wanted to pay for it and thought it may be forgotten as such plans usually are, but the very next day three more lanyards arrived in my mailbox. With a second medal. Tim had liked what I was doing and sent me a second one. The aftercare on this race was amazing to say the least (Thanks again Tim, you can see now why it meant so much). 

So, Dad, that's the end of my story, for now. At the time of writing most of this, it's a week further along. I'm currently on a plane nearly in Lima, Peru. I'll be honest, I'm very scared of what I'll find. Nik says it's okay now, that you feel better, but like Samson, you've has always been known for your hair and strength despite being a small man. I know it's going to be one of the hardest moments of my life to see you stripped of that.

I don't fully know what the future holds for our family, but I do know that we may have taken a tremendous knock but we will not be beaten. We will take this and make it something positive. As hard as this is I am doing my best to remember that flowers do grow through rubble. And when the times are dark, make sure you do, too.

For anyone else reading, if you've got this far, please, please go and tell your family you love them.

For you, Dad, I do love you.

Benjamin